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A  UTHOR: 


CROCE,  BENEDETTO 


TITLE: 


ARIOSTO, 
SHAKESPEARE  AND 


PLACE: 


NEW  YORK 


DATE: 


1920 


COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARIES 
PRESERVATION  DEPARTMENT 


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'^85Ar4 

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r>Qc*».ii 

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Croce,  Benedetto,  1866-1952.  ^ 

Ariosto,  Shakespeare  and  Comeille,  by  Benedetto  Croce; 
tr.  by  Douglas  Ainslie.  New  York,  H.  Holt  and  company, 
1920. 

Till,  440  p.   19}  cm. 

G^y-4n-€aH.ege-Lite»aa?y« — tOSQ . 


Copy  in  Paterno.     1920  • 


1.  Ariosto,  Lodovlco.  2.  Shakespeare,  Wllllam—Criticism  and  In- 
terpretation. 3.  CJornelUe,  Pierre,  1606-1684.  i.  Ainslie,  Douglas, 
1865-1'^ -^^tr. 

PN725.C7  .       ^  fil— 1379 

CONTINUCD  ON   NEXT  CARD 


Library  of  Congress 

Restrictions  on  Use: 


O:. 


[59zl] 


Croce,  Benedetto,  1866-1952.  Ariosto,  Shakespeare 
and  Corneille.  1920,  (Card  2) 


! 


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ARIOSTO,  SHAKESPEARE 
AND  CORNEILLE 


BY 


BENEDETTO  CROCK 


TRANSLATED  BY 

DOUGLAS  AINSLIE 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1920 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE 


Copyright,  1920 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


"P     1  - 

0  3 


/ 


Evviva  L'ltalial  Italy,  Britain's  ancient 
friend  and  loyal  ally,  has  been  an  important  fac- 
tor both  in  winning  the  war  and  in  bringing  it 
to  an  earlier  conclusion.  The  War!  That 
greatest  practical  effort  that  the  world  has  ever 
made  is  now  over  and  we  must  all  work  to  make 
it  a  better  place  for  all  to  live  in. 

Now  at  the  hands  of  her  philosopher-critic, 
Italy  offers  us  a  first  effort  at  reconstruction  of 
our  world-view  with  this  masterly  treatise  on 
the  greatest  poet  of  the  English-speaking  world, 
so  original  and  so  profound  that  it  will  serve  as 
guide  to  generations  yet  unborn.  And  it  will 
not  be  only  the  critics  of  Shakespeare  who 
should  benefit  by  this  treatise,  but  all  critics  and 
lovers  of  poetry  —  including  prose  —  who  go 
beyond  the  passive  stage  of  mere  admiration. 
The  essays  on  Ariosto  and  Corneille  are  also 
unique  and  the  three  together  should  inaugurate 
everywhere  a  new  era  in  literary  criticism. 

These  are  the  first  of  Benedetto  Croce's  lit- 
erary criticisms   to   see   the  light   in  English, 

m 


^£r 


V. 


/ ,( 


IV 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE 


They  are  profound  and  suggestive,  because 
based  upon  theory,  the  Theory  of  Aesthetic, 
with  which  some  readers  will  be  acquainted  in 
the  original,  others  in  the  version  by  the  present 
translator.  These  will  not  need  to  be  told  that 
Croce's  theory  of  the  independence  and  auto- 
nomy of  the  aesthetic  fact,  which  is  intuition- 
expression,  and  of  the  essentially  lyrical  char- 
acter of  all  art,  is  the  only  one  that  completely 
and  satisfactorily  explains  the  problem  of 
poetry  and  the  fine  arts. 

But  this  is  not  the  place  for  philosophical  dis- 
cussion, although  it  is  important  to  stress  the 
point,  that  all  criticism  is  based  upon  philos- 
ophy, and  that  therefore  if  the  philosophy  upon 
which  it  is  based  is  unsound,  the  criticism  suf- 
fers accordingly.  Croce  has  elsewhere  shown 
that  the  shortcomings  of  such  critics  as  Sainte- 
Beuve,  Taine,  Lemaitre  and  Brunetiere  are 
due  to  incorrect  or  insufficient  philosophical 
knowledge  and  a  similar  criterion  can  be  ap- 
plied at  home  with  equal  truth. 

The  translator  will  be  satisfied  if  the  present 
version  receives  equal  praise  from  the  author 
with  that  accorded  to  the  four  translations  of 
the  Philosophy  into  English,  which  Croce  has 
often  declared  to  come  more  near  to  his  spirit 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE  v 

than  those  in  any  other  language  —  and  he  has 
been  translated  into  all  the  great  European  lan- 
guages —  the  Aesthetic  even  into  Japanese. 
The  object  adhered  to  in  this  translation  has 
been  as  close  a  cleaving  as  possible  to  the  orig- 
inal, while  preserving  a  completely  idiomatic 
style  and  remaining  free  from  all  pedantry. 
A  translation  should  not  in  any  case  be  taken 
as  a  pouring  from  the  golden  into  the  silver 
vessel,  as  used  to  be  erroneously  supposed,  for 
Croce  has  proved  that  in  so  far  as  the  trans- 
lator rethinks  the  original  he  is  himself  a  cre- 
ator. This  explains  why  so  many  writers 
have  been  addicted  to  translation  —  in  English 
we  have  Pope,  Fitzgerald,  Rossetti,  to  name  but 
three  of  many  —  and  the  author  of  the  Phil- 
osophy of  the  Spirit,  Croce  himself,  has  pub- 
lished a  splendid  Italian  version  of  HegePs 
Encyclopaedia  of  the  Philosophic  Sciences, 


Douglas  Ainslie. 


The  Athenaeum, 
Pall  Mall,  London, 
October,  1920. 


i'^ 


■•J 


CONTENTS 


PART  I 
LUDOVICO  ARIOSTO 

CHAPTSB  PAGB 

I    A  Critical  Problem 3 

II    The  Life  of  the  Affections  in  Ari- 

OSTO,   AND  THE  HeART  OF  HiS  HeART  1 8 

III  The  Highest  Love:  Harmony     .     .  34 

IV  The  Material  for  the  Harmony      .  48 
V    The  Realisation  of  Harmony      .     .  69 

VI    Historical  Disassociations       ...  95 


VII 


PART  II 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

The  Practical  Personality  and  the 
Poetical  Personality      .     .     .     .117 


VIII 

Shakespearean  Sentiment       .     .     . 

138 

IX 

Motives  and  Development  of  Shake- 
SPEARE*S  Poetry     ...,., 

163 

X 

The  Art  of  Shakespeare    .     .     .     . 

274 

XI 

Shakespearean  Criticism    .     .     .     . 

300 

XII 

Shakespeare  and  Ourselves    •     .     . 

vil 

328 

viu 


CONTENTS 


PART  III 
PIERRE  CORNEILLE 

XIII  Criticism  of  the  Criticism     .     .     .337 

XIV  The  Ideal  of  Corneille    ....  362 

XV    The  Mechanism  of  the  Cornelian 

Tragedy 390 

XVI    The  Poetry  of  Corneille       .     .     .  408 

Index      . 431 


4 


PART  I 
LUDOVICO  ARIOSTO 


.f 


CHAPTER  I 
A  CRITICAL  PROBLEM 


The  fortune  of  the  Orlando  Furioso  may  be 
compared  to  that  of  a  graceful,  smiling  woman, 
whom  all  look  upon  with  pleasure,  without  ex- 
periencing any  intellectual  embarrassment  or 
perplexity,  since  it  suffices  to  have  eyes  and  to 
direct  them  to  the  pleasing  object,  in  order  to 
admire.  Crystal  clear  as  is  the  poem,  polished 
in  every  particular,  easily  to  be  understood  by 
whomsoever  possesses  general  culture,  it  has 
never  presented  serious  difficulties  of  interpre- 
tation, and  for  that  reason  has  not  needed  the 
industry  of  the  commentators,  and  has  not  been 

^  In  the  preparation  of  this  essay,  I  believe  that  I  have 
examined  all,  or  almost  all,  the  literature  of  erudition  and 
criticism,  old  and  new,  in  connection  with  Ariosto;  this  will 
not  escape  the  expert  reader,  although  particular  discussions 
and  quotation  of  titles  and  pages  of  books  have  seemed  to 
me  to  be  superfluous  on  this  occasion.  But  in  judging  this 
work,  the  reader  should  have  present  in  his  mind  above  all 
the  chapter  of  De  Sanctis  on  the  Furioso  (illustrated  with 
fragments  from  his  lectures  at  Zurich  upon  the  poetry  of 
chivalry),  which  forms  the  point  of  departure  for  these  late^ 
investigations  and  conclusions. 

9 


I 


A   CRITICAL   PROBLEM 


injured  by  their  quarrelsome  subtleties;  nor  has 
it  been  subject,  more  than  to  a  very  slight  ex- 
tent,  to  the  intermittences  from  which  other 
notable  poetical  works  have  suffered,  owing  to 
the  varying  conditions  of  culture  at  different 
times.     Great  men  and  ordinary  readers  have 
been  in  as  complete  agreement  about  it,  as,  for 
instance,   about  the  beauty,  let  us  say,   of  a 
Madame  Recamier;  and  the  list  of  great  men, 
who  have  experienced  its  fascination,  goes  from 
Machiavelli  and  the  Galilei,  to  Voltaire  and  to 
Goethe,  without  mentioning  names  more  near 

to  our  own  time. 

Yet,  however  unanimous,  simple  and  unre- 
strainable    be    the    aesthetic    approbation    ac- 
corded  to  the  poem  of  Ariosto,  the  critical  judg- 
ments  delivered  upon  it  are  just  as  discordant, 
complicated  and  laboured;  and  indeed  this  is 
one  of  those  cases  where  the  difference  of  the 
two  spiritual  moments,  intuitive  or  aesthetic, 
the  apprehension  or  tasting  of  the  work  of  art, 
and  intellective,  the  critical  and  historical  judg- 
ment,— a    difference    wrongly    disputed    from 
one  point  of  view  by  sensationalists  and  from 
another    by    intellectualists,— stands    out    so 
clearly  as  to  seem  to  be  almost  spatially  di- 
vided, so  that  one  can  touch  it  with  one's  hand. 


A   CRITICAL    PROBLEM 


Anyone  can  easily  read  and  live  again  the  oc- 
taves of  Ariosto,  caressing  them  with  voice 
and  imagination,  as  though  passionately  in 
love;  but  to  say  whence  comes  that  particular 
form  of  enchantment,  to  determine  that  is  to 
say,  the  character  of  the  inspiration  that  moved 
Ariosto,  his  dominant  poetical  motive,  the  pe- 
culiar effect  which  became  poetry  In  him.  Is  a 
very  different  undertaking  and  one  of  no  small 
difficulty. 

The  question  has  tormented  the  critics  from 
the  time  when  literary  and  historical  criticism 
acquired    Individual    prominence    and    energy, 
that  Is  to  say  at  the  origin  of  romantic  aesthet- 
Iclsm,  when  works  of  art  were  no  longer  exam-j 
Ined  In  parts  separated  from  the  whole,  or  In 
their  external  outline,  but  In  the  spirit  that  ani- 
mated   them.     Yet   we    must   not   think   that 
earlier  times  were  without  all  suspicion  of  this, 
for  an  uncertain  suggestion  of  it  Is  to  be  found 
even  In  the  eccentric  enquiries,  as  to  whether 
the  Furioso  be  a  moral  poem  or  not,  or  whether 
It  should  be  looked  upon  as  serious  or  playful. 
But  intellects  such  as  Schiller  and  Goethe,  Hum- 
boldt and  Schelling,  Hegel,   Ranke,  Globerti, 
Quinet  and  De  Sanctis,  treated  or  touched  upon 
it  in  the  last  century,  and  very  many  others  dur- 


\     I 


6  A  CRITICAL   PROBLEM 

ing  and  after  their  times,  and  the  theme  has 
again  been  taken  up  with  renewed  keenness,  m 
dissertations,  memoirs  and  articles,  some  of 
them  foreign,  but  mostly  Italian. 

Many  of  the  problems  or  formulas  of  prob- 
lems, which  one  at  one  time  critically  discussed 
have  been  allowed  to  disappear,  like  cast-off 
clothes  as  the  results  of  the  new  conception  of 
art :  that  is  to  say,  not  only  those  we  have  men- 
tioned, as  to  whether  the  Furioso  were  or  were 
not  an  epic,  whether  it  were  serious  or  comic, 
but  also  a  throng  of  other  problems,  such  as 
whether  it  possessed  unity  of  action,  a  prota- 
gonist  or  hero,  whether  its  episodes  were  linked 
to  the  action,  whether  it  maintained  the  dignity 
of  history,  whether  it  afforded  an  allegory,  and 
if  so,  of  what  sort,  whether  it  obeyed  the  laws 
of  modesty  and  morality,  or  followed  good  ex- 
amples,  whether  it  could  be  credited  with  inven- 
tion, and  if  so  in  what  measure,  whether  it  were 
finer  than  the  Gerusalemme  or  less  fine,  and  as  to 
what  it  was  finer  or  less  fine ;  and  so  on.     All 
these  problems  have  become  obsolete,  because 
they  have  been  solved  in  the  only  suitable  way, 
that  is  to  say,  they  have  been  shown  to  be  falla- 
cious in  their  theoretical  terms ;  and  to  say  that 
they  are  obsolete  does  not  mean  that  there 


A   CRITICAL   PROBLEM  7 

have  not  been  some,  both  in  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury and  at  the  present  time,  who  have  set  to 
work  to  solve  them,  and  have  arrived  at  un- 
fortunate conclusions  in  different  ways.     The 
unity  of  action  of  the  Furioso  has  also  been  in- 
vestigated and  determined  (by  Panizzi,  for  ex- 
ample, and  by  Carducci)  ;  its  immorality  has 
also  been  blamed  (by  Cantu,  for  instance) ;  the 
book  of  the  debts  of  Ariosto  to  his  predecessors 
has  been  re-opened  and  charged  with  so  very 
many  figures  on  the  debit  side  that  the  final  bal- 
ance-sheet of  credit  and  debit  presents  an  enor- 
mous deficit  (Rajna) ;  the  comparison  with  ex- 
amples  from  prototypes  under  the   name   of 
**  Evolutionary  History  of  Romantic  Chivalry, '^ 
in  which  the  Furioso,  according  to  some,  does 
not  represent  the  summit,  but  rather  a  deviation 
and  decadence  from  the  ideal  prototype  (Rajna 
again)  ;  according  to  others,  the  Furioso  gave 
final  and  perfect  form  to  "  The  French  Epic  of 
Germanic    Heroes"    (Morf) ;    allegory,    con- 
tained in  a  moral  judgment  as  to  Italian  life  at   ; 
the  time  of  the  Renaissance,  lost  in  its  pursuit 
of  love,  like  the  Christian  and  Saracen  knights 
in  their  pursuit  of  Angelica   (Canello).     But 
whether  in  their  primitive   or  in  their  more 
modern  forms  these  problems  are  obsolete,  for 


\ 


8 


A   CRITICAL    PROBLEM 


us  who  are  aware  of  the  mistakes  and  errors  In 
aesthetic,  from  which  they  arise;  and  others  of 
more  recent  date  must  also  be  held  obsolete 
with  these,  such  theories  as  these  for  instance 
(to  quote  one  of  them)  which  undertake  to 
study  the  Furioso  in  its  "  formation,"  under- 
standing by  formation  the  literary  presupposi- 
tions of  its  various  parts,  beginning  with  the 
title.  Decorated  with  the  name  of  Scientific 
Study,  this  is  mere  inconclusive  or  ill-conclusive 
philology. 

The  work  of  modern  criticism  does  not  re- 
strict itself  to  the  clearing  away  of  these  idle 
and  unnecessary  enquiries,  but  also  includes  a 
varied  and  thorough  investigation  into  the 
poetry  of  Ariosto,  whose  every  aspect  we  may 
claim  to  have  illuminated  in  turn,  and  to  have 
given  all  the  solutions  as  to  the  true  character 
of  the  problem  that  can  be  suggested.  And  it 
almost  seems  now  that  anyone  who  wishes  to 
form  an  idea  upon  the  subject  needs  but  select 
from  the  various  existing  solutions,  that  one 
which  shows  itself  to  be  clearly  superior  to  all 
others,  owing  to  its  being  supported  by  the  most 
valid  arguments,  after  he  has  possessed  himself 
of  the  critical  literature  relating  to  Ariosto.  It 
seems  impossible  to  suggest  a  new  solution,  and 


•t 


A   CRITICAL    PROBLEM  9 

as  though  the  argument  were  one  of  those 
of  which  it  may  be  said  that  "  there  is  no 
hope  of  finding  anything  new  in  connection 
with  it." 

And  this  is  very  nearly  true,  but  only  very 
nearly,  for  a  non-superficial  examination  of 
those  various  solutions  leads  to  the  result  that 
none  of  them  is  valid  in  the  way  it  is  presented, 
that  is  to  say,  with  the  arguments  that  support 
it.  It  is  therefore  advisable  to  indicate  some 
of  these  arguments,  which  have  already  been 
given,  and  to  deduce  from  them  other  conse- 
quences, though  we  may  not  succeed  in  framing 
others  which  shall  shine  with  amazing  novelty. 
But  upon  consideration,  this  will  be  nothing 
less  than  providing  a  new  solution,  just  be- 
cause the  problem  has  been  differently  pre- 
sented and  differently  argued :  a  novelty  of  that 
serious  sort  which  is  a  step  forward  upon  what 
has  already  been  observed  and  acquired,  not 
that  sort  of  extravagant  novelty  iagreeable  to 
false  originality  and  to  sterile  subtlety. 

There  are  two  fundamental  types  of  reply 
to  the  question  as  to  the  character  of  Ariosto's 
poetry;  of  these  the  more  important  is  the  first, 
either  because,  as  will  be  seen,  really  here  near 
to  the  truth,   or  because  supported  with  the 


lo         A   CRITICAL    PROBLEM 


supreme  authority  of  De  Sanctis.  Prior  to  De 
Sanctis,  it  is  only  to  be  vaguely  discerned  as 
suggested  by  the  eighteenth  century  writer,  Sul- 
zer,  and  more  clearly  in  the  German  aesthetic 
writer,  Vischer;  it  was  afterwards  repeated, 
prevailed  and  was  accepted,  among  others  by 
Carducci.  According  to  De  Sanctis  and  to  his 
precursors  and  followers,  in  the  Furioso  Ariosto 
has  no  subjective  content  to  express,  no  senti- 
mental or  passionate  motive,  no  idea  become 
sentiment  or  passion,  but  pursues  the  sole  end 
of  art,  singing  for  singing's  sake,  representing 
for  representation's  sake,  elaborating  pure 
form,  and  satisfying  the  one  end  of  realising 
his  own  dreams. 

This  affirmation  is  not  to  be  taken  in  a  gen- 
eral sense,  the  words  in  which  it  is  formu- 
lated must  not  be  construed  literally,  for  in  that 
case  it  would  be  easy  to  raise  the  reasonable 
objection,  that  not  only  Ariosto,  but  every  art- 
ist, jiist  because  he  is  an  artist,  never  has  any 
end  but  that  of  art,  of  singing  for  singing's 
sake,  representing  for  representation's  sake,  of 
elaborating  pure  form,  and  of  satisfying  the 
need  that  he  feels  to  realise  his  own  dreams: 
woe  to  the  artist,  who  has  an  eye  to  any  other 
ends,  and  tries  to  teach,  to  persuade,  to  shock, 


A   CRITICAL    PROBLEM 


II 


to  move,  to  r^iake  a  hit  or  an  effect,  or  anything 
else  extraneous  to  art.  The  theory  of  art  for 
art,  opposed  by  many,  is  incontestable  from 
this  point  of  view,  it  is  indeed  indubitable  and 
altogether  obvious.  The  critics  who  attribute 
that  end  as  a  character  of  Ariosto's  poetry, 
mean  rather  to  affirm,  that  the  author  of  the 
Furioso  proceeded  in  his  own  individual  proper 
manner  with  respect  to  other  poets;  and  they 
then  proceed  to  determine  their  thoughts  upon 
the  subject  in  two  ways,  differing  somewhat 
from  one  another.  Both  of  these  are  to  be 
found  mingled  and  confused  in  the  pages  of 
De  Sanctis.  Ariosto  is  held  to  have  allowed 
to  pass  in  defile  within  him  the  chain  of  roman- 
tic figures  of  knights  and  ladies  and  the  stories 
of  their  arms  and  audacious  undertakings,  of 
their  loves  and  their  love-making,  with  the  one 
object  of  delighting  the  imagination,  Ariosto 
is  held  to  have  depicted  that  various  human 
world  without  interposing  anything  between 
himself  and  things,  without  reflecting  himself 
in  things,  without  sinking  them  in  himself  or  in 
his  own  feelings.  He  is  held  to  have  been 
solely  an  objective  observer.  Now,  taking  the 
first  case,  that  is  to  say,  if  the  work  of  Ariosto 
be  really  resolved  into  a  plaything  of  the  imag- 


/ 


12        A  CRITICAL   PROBLEM 

ination,  although  he  might  have  pleased  him- 
self by  doing  something  agreeable  to  himself 
and  to  others,  yet  he  would  not  have  been  a 
poet,  **  the  divine  Ariosto,"  because  the  pleas- 
ure of  the  fancy  belongs  to  the  order  of  practi- 
cal acts,  to  what  are  called  games  or  diversion. 
And  in  the  second  case,  when  he  has  been 
praised  for  being  perfectly  objective,  this  is  not 
only  at  variance  with  the  actual  creation  of  the 
poet,  but  is  also  in  contradiction  to  it  —  and 
indeed  in  contradiction  to  every  form  of  spir- 
itual production.  As  though  things  existed 
outside  the  spirit  and  it  were -possible  to  take 
them  up  in  their  supposed  objectivity  and  to 
externalise  them  by  putting  them  on  paper  or 
canvas.  The  theory  of  art  for  art,  when 
taken  as  a  theory  of  merely  fanciful  pleasure  or 
of  indifferent  objective  reproduction  of  things, 
should  be  firmly  rejected,  because  it  is  at  vari- 
ance with  and  contradicts  the  nature  of  art  and 
of  the  universal  spirit.  At  the  most,  these  two 
paradigms, —  art  as  mere  fancy  and  art  as  ex- 
trinsic objectivity, —  might  be  of  avail  as  desig- 
nating two  artistic  forms  of  deficiency  and  ugli- 
ness, futile  art  and  material  art,  that  is  to  say, 
in  both  cases,  non-art ;  and  in  like  manner  the 
theory  of  art  for  art's  sake  would  in  those 


A   CRITICAL   PROBLEM         13 

cases  be  the  definition  of  one  or  more  forms  of 
artistic  perversion. 

Owing  to  the  impossibility  of  denying  to  Ar- 
iosto  any  content,  and  at  the  same  time  of  en- 
joying him  and  of  acclaiming  him  a  poet, —  an 
impossibility  more   or  less   obscurely   felt   by 
some,  although  without  discovering  and  demon- 
strating it  as  has  been  done  above, —  it  has 
come   about   that   not  only  other  critics,   but 
those  very  critics  who,  like  De  Sanctis,  had 
described  him  as  a  poet  of  pure  fancy  or  pure 
objectivity,  have  been  led  to  recognise  in  him 
a  content,  and  sometimes  several  contents,  one 
upon  the  top  of  the  other,  in  a  heap.     One  of 
such  contents,  perhaps  that  most  generally  ad- 
mitted, is  without  doubt  the  diisplutign  qf  the 
world  of  chivalry,  brought  about  by  Ariosto 
through  irony:  a  historical  position  conferred 
upon  him  by  Hegel,  and  amply  illustrated  by 
De  Sanctis.     But  what  do  they  mean  by  say- 
ing that  Ariosto  expresses  the  dissolution  of 
the  world  of  chivalry?     Certainly  not  simply 
that  in  his  poem  are  to  be  found  documents 
concerning  the  passing  of  the  ideals  of  chivalry, 
because  whether  this  be  true  or  not,  it  does  not 
concern  the  concrete  artistic  form,  but  its  ab- 
stract material,  considered  and  treated  as  a 


14         A   CRITICAL   PROBLEM 


source  of  historical  documentation.  Nor  can 
it  mean  that  he  was  inspired  with  aversion  to  the 
ideals  of  chivalry  and  in  favour  of  new  ideals, 
because  polemic  and  criticism,  negation  and  af- 
firmation, are  not  art.  So  what  was  really 
meant  was  (although  those  who  maintain  this 
interpretation  often  understand  it  in  one  or 
other  of  those  meanings,  which  are  external  to 
art),  that  Ariosto  was  animated  with  a  true 
and  real  feeling  toward  the  ideals  of  the  life  of 
chivalry,  and  that  this  feeling  supplied  the  lyri- 
cal motive  for  his  poem.  This  motive  has  been 
disputed  in  its  details  in  various  ways,  some 
holding  it  to  have  been  aversion,  others  a  mix- 
ture of  aversion  and  of  love,  others  of  admira- 
tion and  of  pleasure;  but  before  we  engage  in 
further  investigation,  we  must  first  ascertain  if 
there  exist,  that  is  to  say,  if  Ariosto  really  en- 
dowed with  his  own  feeling  —  whatever  it  be, 
prevailing  aversion  or  prevailing  inclination  or 
a  prevalent  alternation  of  the  two, —  the  ma- 
terial of  chivalry,  rendering  it  serious  and  emo- 
tional, through  the  seriousness  and  emotion  of 
his  own  feeling.  And  this  does  not  exist  at  all, 
for  what  all  feel  and  see  as  chivalry  in  Ariosto*s 
mode  of  treatment,  is  on  the  contrary  a  sort  of 
aloofness  and  superiority,  owing  to  which  he 


A  CRITICAL   PROBLEM 


15 


never  engages  himself  up  to  the  hilt  in  admira- 
tion or  in  scorn  or  in  passionate  disagreement 
with  one  or  the  other;  and  this  impression 
which  his  narratives  of  sieges  and  combats,  of 
duels  and  feats  of  arms  produce  upon  us,  has 
afforded  the  ground  for  the  above-mentioned 
opposed  theories  as  to  his  objective  attitude 
and  as  to  his  cultivation  of  a  mere  pastime  of 
the  imagination.  Had  Ariosto  really  aimed, 
as  is  said,  at  an  exaltation  or  a  semi-exaltation 
or  at  an  ironisation  of  chivalry,  he  would 
clearly  have  missed  the  mark,  and  this  failure 
would  have  been  the  failure  of  his  art. 

What  has  been  remarked  concerning  the  con- 
tent of  chivalry  is  to  be  repeated  for  all  the 
other  contents  which  have  been  proposed  in 
turn,  each  one  or  all  of  them  together  as  the 
true  and  proper  leading  motive;  and  of  these 
(leaving  out  the  least  likely,  because  we  are 
not  here  concerned  with  collecting  curious 
trifles  of  Ariostesque  criticism,  but  are  resum- 
ing the  essential  lines  of  this  criticism  with  the 
intention  of  cutting  into  it  more  deeply  and 
with  greater  certainty) ,  the  next  thing  to  men- 
tion, immediately  after  chivalrous  ideality  or 
anti-ideality,  is  the  philosophy  of  life,  the  wis-  i 
dom,  which  Ariosto  is  supposed  to  have  ad-  ■ 


i6         A   CRITICAL   PROBLEM 

ministered  and  counselled.     This  wisdom  is  sup- 
posed to  have  embraced  love,  friendship,  poli- 
tics, religion,  public  and  private  life,  and  to  have 
been  directed  with  great  moderation  and  good 
sense,    noble    without    fanaticism,    courageous 
and  patient,   dignified   and  modest.     We   ad- 
mit  that  these  things  are  to  be  found  in  the  Fur- 
ioso,  just  as  chivalrous  things  are  to  be  found 
there  also;  but  they  are  there  in  almost  the 
same  way,  that  is  to  say,  with  the  not  doubtful 
accent  of  aloofness  and  remoteness,  which  at 
once  places  a  great  chasm  between  Ariosto  and 
the  true  poets  of  wisdom,'  such  as  were  for  in- 
stance,  Manzoni  and  Goethe.     The  latter  of 
these,  in  the  fine  verses  (of  the  Tasso)  in  praise 
of  Ariosto,—  who  is  held  to  have  there  draped 
in  the  garb  of  fable  all  that  can  render  man 
dear  and  honoured,    to    have    exhibited   expe- 
rience, intelligence,  good  taste,  the  pure  sense 
of  good,  as  living  persons,  crowned  with  roses 
and  surrounded  with  a  magic  winged  presence 
of  Amorini,—  somewhat  transfigured  the  sub- 
ject of  his  eulogy,  by  approaching  him  to  him- 
self:  although,  as  we  perceive  from  the  images 
that  he  employed,  it  did  not  escape  him  that  m 
the  case  of  the  lovable  singer  of  the  Furtoso, 
the    wisdom    was    covered,    and    as    it    were 


A   CRITICAL   PROBLEM 


17 


smothered  beneath  a  cloud  of  many  coloured 
flowers.     Thus  the  two  principal  solutions  hith- 
erto given  of  the  critical  problem  presented  by 
Ariosto,  the  only  two  which  appear  thinkable, 
—  that  the  Furioso  has  no  content;  that  it  has 
this  or  that  content, —  each  finds  countenance 
in  the  other  and  arguments  in  its  favour.     This 
means  that  they  confute  one  another  in  turn. 
And  since  it  is  impossible  that  there  should  be 
no  content  in  Ariosto,  and  on  the  other  hand, 
since  all  those  to  which  attention  was  first  di- 
rected   (admiration   or  contempt  of  chivalry, 
wisdom  of  life)   turn  out  to  be  without  exist- 
ence, it  is  clear  that  there  is  no  way  out  of  the 
difficulty,  save  that  of  seeking  another  content, 
and  such  an  one  as  shall  show  how  the  truth 
has  been  improperly  symbolised  in  the  formu- 
las of  **  mere  imagination,"  of  "  indifferent  ob- 
jectivity ''  and  of  "  art  for  art's  sake." 


ARIOSTO'S   HEART 


19 


CHAPTER  n 

THE  LIFE  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS  IN 

ARIOSTO,  AND  THE  HEART  OF 

HIS  HEART 

Ariosto  had  ordinary  emotional  experiences 
in  life,  and  this  has  been  shown  to  be  true,  not 
so  much  through  the  biographies  of  his  con- 
temporaries  and  documents  which  have  later 
come  to  light,  as  through  his  own  words   be- 
cause  he  took  great  pleasure,  if  not  exactly  in 
confessing  himself,  at  any  rate  in  giving  vent 
to  his  feelings.     It  is  well  known  that  he  was 
without  profound  intellectual  passions,  religious 
or  political,  free  from  longing  for  riches  and 
honours,  simple  and  frugal  in  his  mode  of  li  e 
seeking  above  all  things  peace  and  tranquillity 
and  freedom  to  follow  his  own  imagination,  to 
give  himself  over  to  the  studies  that  he  loved 
Rarely  or  only  for  brief  spaces  of  time  was  it 
given  to  him  to  live  in  his  own  way,  owing  to 
?he  necessity,  always  on  his  shoulders,  for  pro- 
viding  for  his  younger  brothers  and  sisters  and 

i8 


for  his  mother,  and  also  the  necessity  of  ob- 
taining bread  for  himself.  All  these  circum-  ■ 
stances  together  constrained  him  to  undertake 
the  hard  work  and  the  annoyances  of  a  court 
life.  He  was  admirable  in  the  fulfilment  of 
family  duties,  perfectly  honest  and  reliable 
on  every  occasion,  full  of  good,  just  and  gen- 
erous sentiments,  and  therefore  the  recipient 
of  universal  esteem  and  confidence.  Owing 
to  reasons  connected  with  his  office,  he  was 
obliged  to  associate  with  greedy,  violent,  un- 
scrupulous men,  but  he  did  not  allow  him- 
self to  be  stained  by  their  contact,  preserving 
the  attitude  of  an  honest  employee  towards 
his  patrons,  attentive  to  the  formal  duties 
with  which  he  was  charged.  He  is  dis- 
creet, but  pure  and  dignified,  refraining  from 
taking  part  whatever  in  the  secret  plots  and 
machinations  of  those  whose  orders  he  obeys. 
He  was  thus  enabled  to  carry  out  the  instruc- 
tions of  his  superiors,  whom  he  regarded  solely 
as  filling  a  certain  lofty  rank,  idealising  them  in 
conformity  with  their  rank,  praising  them,  that 
is  to  say,  for  their  attainments,  their  ability  and 
their  noble  undertakings,  either  because  they 
really  possessed  them  and  really  accomplished 
the  things  for  which  he  praised  them,  or  be- 


20 


ARIOSTO'S    HEART 


ARIOSTO'S   HEART 


21 


cause  they  should  have  possessed  them  and  ac- 
complished the  feats  in  question,  as  attributes 
inherent  to  their  social  station. 

Among  these  duties  and  labours  one  single 
passion  ran  like  an  ever  warm  stream  through 
his  brain :  loyej,  or  rather  the  need  of  woman's 
society,  to  have  with  him  a  beloved  woman,  to 
enjoy  her  beauty,  her  laughter,  her  speech:  and 
although  he  frequently  alludes  to  this  passion,  it 
is  as  one  ashamed  of  a  weakness,  but  aware  that 
he  can  by  no  means  dispense  with  the  sweetness 
that  it  procures  for  him  and  which  is  a  vital 
element  of  his  being.  But  even  his  love  for 
woman,  however  strong  it  may  have  been, 
found  its  correct  framework  in  his  idyllic  ideal 
and  in  his  reflective  and  temperate  spirit :  it  con- 
tained nothing  of  the  fantastic,  the  adventur- 
ous, the  Donjuanesque ;  and  after  the  custom- 
ary evil  and  evanescent  adventures  of  youth,  he 
took  refuge  in  her  **  for  whom  he  trembled 
with  amorous  zeal"  and  (as  his  friend  Her- 
cules Bentivoglio  tells  us  in  verse)  :  in  that 
Alexandra,  who  was  his  friend  for  twenty 
years,  and  finally  his  more  or  less  legal  wife. 
United  to  his  desire  for  quietude,  there  was 
thus  a  potent  stimulus  not  to  remove  himself 
at  all,  or  if  at  all,  then  as  little  as  possible,  from 


her  who  was  warmth  and  comfort  for  him,  and 
to  whom  he  clung  like  a  child  to  the  bosom  of 
its  mother.  His  latter  years,  in  which,  re- 
called from  his  severe  sojourn  at  Garfagnana, 
he  occupied  himself  with  correcting  his  poems 
at  Ferrara,  with  the  woman  he  loved  at  his 
side,  were  perhaps  the  happiest  he  knew;  and 
he  passed  away  in  that  peace  for  which  he  had 
sighed,  ere  attaining  to  old  age. 

Such  tendencies  of  soul  and  the  life  which  re- 
sulted  from  them,   have  sometimes  been   ad- 
mired and  envied,  as  for  instance  by  the  six- 
teenth century  English  translator  of  the  Furi- 
oso,     Harrington.     After     having     described 
them,   and  having  disclaimed  certain  sins,  in- 
indeed  as  he  said,  the  single  pecadillo  of  love,  he 
concludes  with  a  sigh :  "  Sic  me  contingat  vi- 
vere,  Sicque  mori/*     Sometimes  too  they  have 
been  looked  upon  from  above  and  almost  with 
compassion,  as  by  De  Sanctis  and  others,  who 
have  insisted  upon  the  negative  aspects  of  the 
character  of  Ariosto.     These  negative  aspects 
are  however  nothing  but  the  limits,  which  are 
found  in  everyone,  for  we  are  not  all  capable 
of  everything;  and  really  Italian  critics,  espe- 
cially in  the  period  of  the  Risorgimento,  were 
often  wrong  in  laying  down  as  a  single  measure 


/ 


i 

I 


i 


t       I 


\  \ 


22 


ARIOSTO*S   HEART 


for  everyone,  civil,  political,  patriotic,  religious, 
excellence,  forgetful  that  judgment  of  an  indi- 
vidual's character  should  depend  upon  his  natu- 
ral disposition,  his  temperament.  Certainly, 
the  life  of  Ariosto  was  not  rich  and  intense,  nor 
does  it  present  important  problems  in  respect 
of  social  and  moral  history;  and  the  industry  of 
the  learned,  although  it  has  been  able  to  in- 
crease its  collections  and  conjectures  as  to  his 
economic  and  family  conditions,  as  to  his  offi- 
cial duties  as  courtier,  as  ambassador  and  ad- 
ministrator for  the  Duke  of  Ferrara,  as  to  his 
loves  and  as  to  the  names  and  persons  of  the 
women  whom  he  loved,  as  to  the  house  which 
he  built  and  inhabited,  and  other  similar  par- 
ticulars, anecdotes  and  curiosities  concerning 
him  (the  collection  of  which  shows  with  how 
much  religion  or  superstition  a  great  man  is 
surrounded,  and  also  sometimes  the  futility  of 
the  searcher),  has  not  added  anything  sub- 
stantial to  what  the  poet  tells  us  himself,  far 
less  has  been  able  to  furnish  materials  for  a 
really  new  biography,  which  should  be  at  once 
profound  and  dramatic. 

Nevertheless,  such  as  it  was,  the  life  of  a 
good  and  of  a  poor  man,  of  one  tenaciously  de- 
voted to  love  and  poetry,  it  found  literary  ex- 


ARIOSTO'S   HEART 


23 


pression  in  the  minor  works  of  the  author:  in 
the  Latin  songs,  in  the  Italian  verses,  and  in 
the  satires. 

In  saying  this,  we  shall  set  aside  the  come- 
dies, which  seem  to  be  the  most  important  of 
those  minor  works  and  are  notwithstanding  the 
least  significant,  so  that  they  might  be  almost 
excluded  from  the  history  of  his  poetical  de- 
velopment, connected  rather  with  his  doings  as 
a  courtier,   as  an  arranger  of  spectacles  and 
plays,  for  which  purpose  he  decided  to  imitate 
the  Latin  comedy,  for  he  did  not  believe  there 
was  anything  new  to  be  done  in  that  field,  since 
the  Latins  had  already  imitated  the  Greeks. 
No  doubt  Ariosto's  comedies  stand  for  an  im- 
portant date  in  the  history  of  the  Italian  the- 
atre and  of  the  Latin  imitation  which  prevailed 
there,  that  is  to  say,  the  history  of  culture,  but 
not  in  that  of  poetry.     There  they  are  mute. 
They  are  works  of  adaptation  and  combination, 
and  therefore  executed  with   effort;  there  is 
nothing  new,   even   about  their   form,   and   a 
proof  of  this  is  that  Ariosto,  after  he  had  made 
a  first  attempt  to  write  them  in  prose,  finally 
put  them  into  monotonous  and  tiresome  ante- 
penultimate hendecasyllabics,  which  have  never 
pleased  anyone's  ear,  because  they  were  not 


/  f 


V 


!l 


I 


24 


ARIOSTO'S    HEART 


born,  but  constructed  according  to  design,  with 
evident  artifice  and  with  a  view  to  giving  to  It- 
aly the  metre  of  comedy,  analogous  to  the  Ro- 
man iambic.  Whoever  (to  cite  an  instance 
from  the  same  period  and  **  style '')  calls  to 
memory  the  Mandragola  of  Machiavelli,  in-- 
stinct  with  the  energetic  spirit,  the  bitter  disdain 
of  the  great  thinker,  or  even  the  sketches 
thrown  upon  paper  anyhow  by  the  ne'er-do-well 
Pietro  Aretino,  is  at  once  sensible  of  the  differ- 
ence between  dead  ability  and  living  force^  or 
at  any  rate  careless  vigour.  Nor  does  the 
dead  material  come  alive,  as  some  easily  con- 
tented critics  maintain,  from  the  fact  that  Ari- 
osto  introduced,  especially  into  the  later  of 
those  comedies,  allusions  to  persons,  places  and 
customs  of  Ferrara,  or  satirical  gibes  at  the. 
vices  of  the  time;  all  these  things  are  light  as 
straws  and  quite  indifferent  when  original  in- 
spiration lacks,  as  in  the  present  case. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  many  pure  and 
spontaneous  parts  in  the  minor  works :  even  the 
imitations  of  Horace,  of  Catullus,  of  TibuUus 
in  the  Latin  poems,  do  not  produce  a  sense  of 
coldness,  because  we  feel  that  they  are  inspired 
with  devotion  of  the  humanists  for  the  Latins, 
for  **  my  Latins,"  as  he  affectionately  called 


ARIOSTO'S    HEART 


25 


them;  and  the  heart  of  the  poet  often  beats 
with  theirs,  whether  he  be  lamenting  the  death 
of  a  friend  and  companion,  or  drawing  the  por- 
trait of  some  fair  lady,  or  describing  the  de- 
lights of  the  country,  or  inveighing  against  some 
treacherous  and  venal  woman.     In  like  man- 
ner, we  observe  some  fine  traits  of  lofty  emo- 
tion among  the  Italian  poems,  such  as  the  two 
songs  for  Philiberta  of  Savoy;  and  the  true  ac- 
cents of  his  love  find  their  way  to  utterance 
among  the  Petrarchan,  the  madrigalesque  and 
the  courtly  qualities   of  others.     Such  is  the 
song  celebrating  their  first  meeting,  in  which 
he  records  the  Florentine  festa,  where  he  saw 
her  who  was  to  become  his  mistress,  and  who 
immediately  occupied  a  place  above  all  other 
women  in  his  eyes,  her  whose  fair,  dense  hair, 
as  it  shaded  her  cheeks  and  neck  and  fell  upon 
her  shoulders,  whose  rich  silken  robe  adorned 
with  scarlet  and  gold,  became  part  of  his  soul ; 
and  the  elegy  which  is  an  outburst  of  joy  upon 
having  attained  the  desired  felicity;  and  that 
other   which    records   the   lovers'   meeting   at 
night;  then  too  the  chapter  upon  the  visit  to 
Florence,  where  all  the  attractions  of  the  sweet 
city  failed  to  secure  for  him  a  moment's  re- 
spite, eager  as  he  was  to  return  to  the  longed-- 


( 


i 


\ 


i 


I 


\  (^ 


26 


ARIOSTO'S    HEART 


for  presence  of  the  loved  one,  whom  he  de- 
scribes  poetically  in  her  absence  as  a  fair 
magician  : 

"  Oltra  acque,  monti,  a  ripa  Fonda  vaga 
Del  re  de*  fiumi,  in  bianca  e  pura  stola, 
Cantando  ferma  il  sol  la  Bella  maga, 
Che  con  sua  vista  puo  sanarmi  sola." 

and  in  the  sonnet  which  ends: 

"  Ma  benigne  accoglienze,  ma  complessi 
Licenziosi,  ma  parole  sciolte 
D*ogni  freno,  ma  risi,  vezzi  e  giuochi." 

They  are  often  echoes  of  the  erotic  Latin  poets, 
refreshed  by  the  true  condition  of  his  own  spirit 
which,  in  the  passion  of  love,  never  went  beyond 
a  tender  and  somewhat  slight  degree  of  sensual- 
ity. It  would  be  vain  to  seek  in  him  what  he 
does  not  possess  —  that  suave  imagining,  those 
cosmical  analogies,  those  moral  finesses  and 
lofty  thoughts,  which  are  to  be  found  in  other 
poets  of  love. 

For  this  reason,  reflections  upon  himself  and 
upon  the  society  in  which  it  was  his  fate  to  live, 
confidences  about  his  own  various  ways  of  feel- 
ing and  the  recital  of  his  adventures,  follow 
and  accompany  the  brief  lyrical  effusions  of  this 
eroticism.     When    Ariosto    limits    himself    to 


•:^ 


ARIOSTO'S   HEART 


27 


the  thoughts  and  happenings  of  his  daily  life, 
it  is  rather  a  question  of  narrating  than  cre- 
ating, and  the  culmination  of  the  minor  works 
are  known  as  the  Satires,  which  must  not  be 
limited  to  the  seven  which  bear  this  title 
in  the  printed  editions,  but  should  be  ex- 
tended to  include  other  compositions  of  like 
tone  and  content,  to  be  found  among  the 
elegies  and  the  capitals,  and  even  among  the 
odes,  such  as  the  elegy  De  diversis  amor- 
thus.  In  all  of  these,  Ariosto  is  writing  his 
autobiography  in  fragments,  or  rather  as  a 
series  of  confidential  letters  to  his  friends, 
such  as  he  did  not  write  in  prose,  at  least 
none  are  to  be  found  among  those  of  his  that 
remain.  These  are  all  connected  with  busi- 
ness, dry,  summary,  and  written  in  haste,  only 
here  and  there  revealing  the  personality  of  the 
writer;  whereas,  when  he  expressed  himself  in 
verse,  he  made  his  own  soul  the  subject,  paying 
attention  to  the  vivacity  of  the  representation 
and  the  precise  accuracy  of  what  he  said.  This 
is  a  most  pleasing  versified  correspondence, 
where  we  hear  him  lamenting,  losing  patience, 
telling  us  what  he  wants,  forming  projects,  re- 
fusing, begging  a  favour,  candidly  laying  bare 
for  us  his  true  disposition,  his  lack  of  docility, 


\ 


1 

i! 


i 


^■Mi 


28 


ARIOSTO'S    HEART 


his  volubility  and  his  caprices,  discussing  life 
and  the  world,  smiling  at  others  and  at  himself; 
we  converse  with  an  Ariosto  in  his  dressing- 
gown,  who  experiences  great  pleasure  and  has 
no  compunction  about  showing  us  himself  as 
he  is,  and  we  know  howjie  abhorred  any  sort  of 
restraint.     But  these  leTters  in  verse,  although 
perfect  in   quality,   vivacious   and  eloquent  as 
only   the  writings   of   a   man   who   speaks  of 
things  that  concern  himself  can  be,  yet  are  let- 
ters, confessions,  autobiography:  they  are  not 
pure  poetry;  their  metrical  form  is  to  them 
something  of  a  delicate  pleasing  whim,  in  har- 
mony  with  such  a  definition  of  the  soul.     To 
saying  this,  we  do  not  wish  to  detract  in  any 
way  from  their  value,  which  is  great,  but  only 
to  prevent   their  true  character   from   escap- 
ing us. 

It  is  no  marvel  then  if  a  connection,  such  as 
prevails  between  hills  and  valleys,  seems  to 
run  between  these  lesser  works,  the  odes,  the 
verses  of  the  satires,  and  the  Furioso,  It  is 
sufficient  to  read  an  octave  or  two  of  the  poem 
to  discover  at  once  the  difference  in  altitude  sep- 
arating it  from  the  most  delicious  of  the  love- 
songs,  from  the  most  nimble  and  picturesque 
of  the  satires,  which  express  the  feelings  of 

lb 


ARIOSTO'S    HEART 


29 


the  author  far  more  directly  than  does  the 
Furioso,  It  is  further  to  be  noted  that  Ariosto 
never  wished  to  publish,  and  certainly  never 
would  have  had  published  a  great  number  of 
them,  with  the  exception  of  the  comedies,  even 
after  his  death,  except  perhaps  the  satires;  but 
since  the  minor  works  are  nevertheless  the  ex- 
pression of  his  feelings  in  real  and  ordinary  life, 
it  follows  that  if  we  wish  to  discover  the  Inspira- 
tion of  the  Furioso,  the  passion  which  informed 
and  gave  to  it  its  proper  content,  we  must  seek 
for  this  beyond  his  ordinary  life,  not  in  the 
heart  which  we  know  as  that  of  a  son,  a  brother, 
a  poor  man,  a  lover :  it  is  something  hidden  yet 
more  deeply  within  him,  the  heart  of  his  heart. 
That  there  really  was  a  hidden  affection; 
that  Ariosto  really  had  a  heart  of  his  heart 
shut  up  within  himself;  that  beyond  and  above 
the  beloved  woman  he  worshipped  another 
woman  or  goddess,  with  whom  he  daily  held  re- 
ligious converse,  is  apparent  from  his  whole 
habit  of  life.  Why  had  he  so  lofty  a  disdain 
for  practical  ambitions,  why  was  life  at  court 
and  business  so  wearisome  to  him,  why  did  he 
renounce  so  much,  sigh  so  often  and  so  often 
pray  for  leisure  and  rest  and  freedom,  save 
to  celebrate  that  cult,  to  give  himself  over  to 


k  V,. 


_1    V 


I 


30 


ARIOSTO'S   HEART 


l«  II 


It! 


( 


that  converse,  to  work  upon  the  Furioso,  which 
was  its  altar,  or  the  statue  which  he  had  sculp- 
tured  for  it  and  was  perfecting  with  his  chisel? 
What  was  the  origin  of  his  well-known  "  dis- 
traction," that  mind  of  his  so  aloof  from  his 
surroundings,    ever    dwelling   upon   something 
else,    which    his    contemporaries    observe    and 
about  which  curious  anecdotes  are  preserved? 
His  need  of  love  and  of  feminine  caresses  did 
not  present  itself  to  him  as  a  supreme  end,  as 
with  people  desirous  of  ease  and  pleasure,  but 
seemed  to  him  to  be  rather  a  means  to  an  end : 
as  though  it  were  the  surrounding  of  serene  joy, 
of  tumult  appeased,  which  he  prepared  for  him- 
self and  for  that  other  more  lofty  love.     Car- 
ducci  has  successfully  defined  this  psychological 
situation  in  his  sonnet  on  the  portrait  of  Ari- 
osto,  where  he  says  that  the  only  longed  for 
and  accepted  "  prize  for  his  poems  "  was  for 
the  great  dreamer  "  a  lovely  mouth  —  which 
should  appease  the  burning  of  his  Apollonian 
brow  —  with  kisses  .  .  ." 

The  proof  of  the  scrupulous  attention  which 
he  devoted  to  the  Furioso,  is  to  be  found  in  the 
twelve  years,  during  which  he  worked  upon  it 
in  the  flower  of  his  age,  **  with  long  vigils  and 
labours,"  as  he  wrote  to  the  Doge  of  Venice, 


ARIOSTO'S   HEART 


31 


when  requesting  the  privilege  of  printing  the 
first  edition  of  15 16;  and  in  his  having  always 
returned  to  it,  to  chisel  smooth  and  to  soften  it 
in  innumerable  delicate  details,  or  to  amplify 
it,  or  in  the  throwing  away  of  five  cantos,  which 
he  had  written  by  way  of  amplification,  but 
which  did  not  go  well  with  the  general  design, 
and  finally  failed  to  content  him.  For  these 
he  substituted  as  many  more,  and  personally 
superintended  the  edition  of  1532,  which  also 
failed  to  content  him  altogether,  so  that  he  be- 
gan to  work  upon  it  again  during  the  few 
months  which  separated  him  from  death.  His 
son  Virginio  attests  that  he  "  was  never  satis- 
fied with  his  verses,  that  he  kept  changing  them 
again  and  again,  and  for  this  reason  never  re- 
membered any  of  them  .  .  .";  and  contempo- 
raries never  cease  marvelling  at  his  diligence  as 
a  corrector  and  a  maker  of  perfect  things :  Gir- 
aldi  Cinzio,  to  mention  but  one  witness,  says 
that  after  the  first  edition,  **  not  a  single  day 
passed,''  during  sixteen  years,  "  that  he  was 
not  occupied  upon  it  with  pen  and  with 
thought,"  and  that  he  was  also  desirous  of  ob- 
taining the  opinions  and  impressions  of  the 
greatest  men  of  letters  and  humanists  in  Italy 
as  to  every  part  of  it,  men  such  as  Bembo,  Mol- 


i 


I  I 


32 


ARIOSTO'S    HEART 


za,  Navagero;  and  as  Apelles  with  his  paint- 
ings, Ariosto  kept  his  work  for  two  years  "  in 
the  hall  of  his  house,  leaving  it  there  that  it 
might  be  criticised  by  everyone  '' ;  and  he  par- 
ticularly said  that  he  wished  his  critics  merely 
to  mark  with  a  stroke  of  the  pen  those  parts 
which  did  not  please  them,  without  giving  any 
reason  for  so  doing,  that  he  might  find  it  out 
for  himself,  and  then  discuss  it  with  them,  and 
so  arrive  at  a  decision  and  a  solution  in  his  own 
way.  He  pushed  his  minute  delicacy  of  taste 
so  far  as  to  be  preoccupied  about  the  choice  of 
modes  of  spelling,  refusing,  for  instance,  to 
remove  the  "  h  "  from  those  words  which  pos- 
sessed it  by  tradition,  thus  opposing  the  sug- 
gestion of  Tolomei  and  the  new  fashion  of  the 
illiterate  crowd,  by  jocosely  replying  that  **  He 
who  removes  the  h  from  HuomOy  does  not 
know  Huomo  (man),  and  he  who  removes  it 
from  Honore,  is  not  worthy  of  honour." 

What  then  was  the  passion  which  he  thus  ex- 
pressed, who  was  the  goddess,  for  whom,  since 
he  could  not  raise  a  temple  and  a  marble  statue 
in  the  little  house  which  he  longed  for  and  built 
in  the  Via  Mirasole,  he  constructed  the  archi- 
tecture, the  forms  and  the  poetical  adornments 
of  the  Furioso?     He  never  uttered  her  name, 


m 


ARIOSTO'S    HEART 


33 


because  none  of  the  other  great  Italian  poets 
was  so  little  a  theorist  or  critic  as  Ariosto.  He 
never  discussed  his  art  or  art  in  general,  limit- 
ing himself  to  saying  very  simply,  and  indeed 
very  inadequately,  that  what  he  meant  by  art 
was  "  A  work  containing  pleasing  and  delight- 
ful things";  nor,  as  we  have  seen,  have  the 
critics  told  us  who  she  was,  since  they  have  at 
the  most  indicated  vaguely  and  indirectly  in 
their  illogical  formula  that  ''  his  Goddess  was 
Art." 


I 


;i 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  HIGHEST  LOVE:    HARMONY 

But  we  on  the  other  hand  shall  name  her, 
and  we  shall  call  her  Harmony,  and  we  shall 
prove  that  those  who  assign  a  simple  aim  to 
Ariosto  in  the  Furioso,  Art  or  Pure  Form,  were 
gazing  at  her  and  seeing  her  as  it  were  through 
a  veil  of  clouds.     In  doing  this,  we  shall  at  the 
same  time  define  the  concept  of  Harmony.     We 
cannot  avoid  entering  upon  certain TKeoretical 
explanations  in  relation  to  this  matter;  but  it 
would  be  wrong  to  look  upon  them  as  digres- 
sions, since  it  is  only  by  their  means  that  the 
way  can  be  cleared  to  the  understanding  of  the 
spirit  which  animates  the  Furioso,     There  is 
something  comic  or  at  least  ironic  in  this  neces- 
sity in  which  we  find  ourselves,  of  weighting  with 
philosophy  a  discourse  relating  to  so  transpar- 
ent a  poet  as  Ariosto;  but  we  have  already 
warned  the  reader  at  the  beginning  that  it  is 
one  thing  to  read  and  let  sing  to  him  the  verses 
of  a  poet,  and  another  to  understand  him,  and 

34 


THE    HIGHEST   LOVE  35 

that  what  is  easy  to  learn  may  sometimes  be 
very  difficult  to  understand. 

It  is  therefore  without  doubt  contradictory 
to  state  that  an  artist  has  for  his  special  and 
particular  end  or  content,  art  itself,  art  which 
is  the  general  end  of  every  artist:  as  contradic- 
tory as  to  say  that  an  individual  has  for  his  con- 
crete and  proper  end,  not  this  or  that  work  and 
profession,  but  life.     And  there  is  also  no  doubt 
that  since  every  error  contains  in  it  an  element 
of   truth,   those   erroneous  theories   aimed  at 
something  effectively  existing:  a  particular  con- 
tent, which  they  were  not  able  to  define,  and 
which  could  never  be  in  any  case  art  for  art. 
Two  sorts  of  judgments  of  that  formula  have 
nevertheless  been  expressed  in  relation  to  two 
different  groups  of  works  of  art:  those  relating 
to  works  which  seemed  to  be  inspired  by  a  par- 
ticular form  of  art,  and  those  which  seem  to  be 
inspired  by  the  idea  of  Art  itself,  by  Art  in  uni- 
versal;  and  for  this  reason  our  rapid  investiga- 
tion must  be  divided  and  directed  first  to  the  one 
and  then  to  the  other  case. 

The  first  case  includes  the  poetry  which  may 
be  called  "  humanistic  "  or  ''  classicistic  " :  not 
the  classicism  and  humanism  of  pedants  with- 
out talent  or  taste,  but  that  lively  humanism 


36 


THE   HIGHEST   LOVE 


THE   HIGHEST   LOVE 


37 


fi 


and  classicism  which  we  are  wont  to  admire  and 
enjoy  in  several  poets  of  our  Renaissance  in  the 
Latin  language,   such   as   Sannazaro,    Politian 
and  Pontano,  and  also  in  later  times  those  ex- 
tremely lettered  writers  in   Italian,  of  whom 
Monti,  in  his  best  work,  may  be  said  to  be  the 
greatest  representative  and  we  might  add  to 
him  Canova,  although  he  has  not  poetised  in 
verse.     What  is  there  that  pleases  us  in  them, 
in  their  imitations,  their  re-writing,  their  can- 
tos of  classical  phrases  and  measures?     And 
what  was  it  that  warmed  and  carried  them 
away,  so  that  they  were  able  to  transmit  their 
emotion  to  us  and  obtain  our  delighted  sym- 
pathy?    It  has  been  answered  that  this  was 
due  to  their  remaining  faithful  to  the  already 
sacred   traditions   of  beautiful   form,   handed 
down  by  the  school;  but  this  answer  is  not  satis- 
factory, because  pedants  also  can  be  mechani- 
cally faithful  in  repeating;  we  have  alluded  to 
these   and  shown  that  on   the   contrary  they 
weary  and  annoy  us.     The  truth  is  that  the 
former  hold  to  those  forms  of  art,  because  they 
are  the  suitable  symbol,  the  satisfactory  expres- 
sion of  their  feeling,  which  is  one  of  affection 
for  the  past,  as  being  venerable,  glorious,  de- 
corous, national  or  super-national  and  cultural ; 


\ 


and  their  content  is  not  literary  form  by  itself, 
but  love  for  that  past,  love  for  some  one  or 
other  historical  age  of  art.     And  if  this  be 
true,  we  must  place  those  romantic  archaisers 
in  the  same  class  of  art  with  the  humanists  or 
classicists,  when  considering  the  substantial  na- 
ture of  things.     For  the  former  nourish  the 
same  feeling  and  employ  the  same  procedure, 
not  in  relation  to  the  Greek  and  Roman  past, 
but  in  relation  to  the  Christian  and  medieval 
past,  particularly  in  Germany,  where  they  let  us 
hear  again  the  rude  accent  of  the  medieval  epic, 
and  represent  the   ingenuous   forms  of  pious 
legends   and  sacred  dramatic  representations, 
and  make  themselves  the  echo  of  ancient  popu- 
lar songs:  this  re-writing  has  often  something 
in  it  of  the  pastiche    (as  the  humanists  and 
classicists  also  have  something  of  the  pastiche, 
which    with    them    is    pedantry),    yet    some- 
times produce  passages  of  delicate  art,  which 
if  not  profound,  were  certainly  agreeable  to 
the  heart  that  remembers,  to  the  eternal  heart 
of  childhood  which  is  in  us. 

Ariosto  was  also  a  more  or  less  successful 
humanist  in  certain  of  his  minor  works,  as  we 
have  said,  but  in  the  Furioso,  although  he  took 
many  schemes  and  details  from  Latin  poets,  he 


38 


THE    HIGHEST   LOVE 


THE   HIGHEST   LOVE 


39 


r 


Stands  essentially  outside  their  line  of  inspira- 
tion, for  instead  of  directing  his  spirit  towards 
the  past,  he  always  draws  the  past  towards  his 
spirit,  and  there  is  no  observable  trace  in  it  of 
Latin-Augustan  archaism,  or  of  the  archaism 
of  medieval  chivalry.  For  this  reason,  the 
view  that  he  had  Art  itself  as  his  content  must 
be  taken  as  applicable  without  doubt  in  the 
other  sense  to  him  and  to  certain  other  artists : 
as  devotion  toArt  as  universal^^_toArt  in  its 
Idea,  a  devotion  which  is  bodied  forTiTTnliis" 
narratives,  his  figures  and  his  verse. 

Now  it  must  be  remembered  that  Art  in  its 
Idea  is  nothing  but  expression  or  —  represen- 
tation of  the  real, —  of  the  real  which  is  con- 
flict and  strife,  but  a  conflict  and  a  strife  that 
are  always  being  settled;  that  it  is  multiplicity 
and  diversity,  but  at  the  same  time  unity,  dialec- 
tic and  development,  and  also  and  through  that, 
cosmos  and  Harmony.  And  since  Art  cannot 
be  the  content  of  Art,  that  is  to  say,  it  is  im- 
possible to  represent  representation  (as  it  is 
impossible  to  think  thought,  so  that  if  thought 
is  made  the  object  of  thought,  it  is  always  itself 
and  the  other,  that  is  to  say,  the  whole),  by 
eliding  the  term  which  is  superfluous  and  has 
been  unduly  retained,  we  obtain  the  result  that 


when  it  is  stated  of  Ariosto  or  of  other  artists 
that  they  have  for  content  pure  Art  or  pure 
Form,  it  is  really  to  be  understood  that  they 
have  for  content  devotion  to  the  pure  rhythm 
of  the  universe,  for  the  dialectic  which  Is  unity, 
for  the  development  which  is  Harmony.  Thus, 
if  humanistic  or  otherwise  archaistic  artists  do 
not  as  is  generally  believed  love  beautiful  forms, 
but  rather  the  past  and  history,  it  may  be  said 
of  those  others  that  they  do  not  love  pure  Art, 
but  the  pure  and  universal  content  of  Art,  not 
this  or  that  particular  strife  and  Harmony 
(erotic,  political,  moral,  religious,  and  so  on), 
but  strife  ^nd  Harmony  In  Idea  and  eternal. 

The  concept  of  cosmic  Harmony,  which  has 
also  been  called  pure  Beauty  or  absolute  Beauty,  • 
and  Indeed  God,  has  been  much  employed  In  old 
philosophy,  and  notably  In  the  old  aesthetic 
(old  always  being  understood  In  Its  logical- 
historical  sense,  which  Is  still  tenacious  of  life 
and  re-appears  In  our  own  day,  where  It  might 
be  least  expected),  and  has  made  an  elabora- 
tion of  the  new  theory,  which  conceives  of  art 
as  lyrical  intuition  or  expression,  very  laborious. 
For  many  reasons  that  it  would  occupy  too 
much  time  and  be  out  of  place  to  detail  here, 
Harmony   or  Beauty   came   to   be   considered 


j^-^ 


h 


40 


THE    HIGHEST   LOVE 


as  the  true  essence  of  Art;  hence  the  impos- 
sibility of  accounting,  not  only  for  many 
works  of  art,  but  for  art  in  general,  and  the 
artificial  attempts  made  by  the  upholders  of 
this  doctrine  and  by  criticism  to  pervert  facts 
in  support  of  a  partial  and  incorrect  principle. 
For  the  reasons  given  above,  it  is  easy  for  us  to 
discern  the  origin  of  the  error,  which  lay  in 
transferring  one  of  the  classes  of  particular 
contents  which  Art  is  able  to  elaborate,  to  serve 
as  the  end  and  essence  of  Art.  And  the  one 
selected  was  precisely  that  which  owing  to  its 
religious  and  philosophical  dignity,  appeared  to 
have  the  power  to  absorb  Art  into  itself  to- 
gether with  everything  else  and  to  dissolve 
the  whole  in  a  sort  of  mysticism.  This  is  con- 
firmed by  the  historical  course  of  the  doc- 
trine, the  first  conspicuous  form  of  which  was 
I^oglatonism,  which  reappeared  on  several  oc- 
casions in  the  Middle  Ages,  at  the  time  of  the 
Renaissance  and  during  the  Romantic  period. 
De  Sanctis  himself,  owing  to  the  romantic  ori- 
gins of  his  thought,  was  never  altogether  free 
from  it;  and  his  judgment  upon  Ariosto  bears 
traces  of  the  transcendental  conception  of  Art 
as  an  actualisation  of  pure  Beauty. 

Similar  traces  are  to  be  found  in  another  doc- 


THE    HIGHEST   LOVE 


41 


trine  to  which  De  Sanctis  held  and  formulated 
as  the  distinction  and  opposition  between  the 
poet  and  the  artist:  a  doctrine  which  it  is  de- 
sirable to  make  clear,  not  only  with  a  view  of 
strengthening  the  concept  to  which  we  have 
had  recourse,  but  also  because  Ariosto  himself 
is  numbered  among  the  poets  to  whom  the  dis- 
tinction has  been  chiefly  applied,  as  he  has  been 
held  to  be  distinct  and  opposed,  along  with  Pol- 
itian  and  Petrarch,  and  perhaps  others,  as  art- 
ists,  to  Dante  or  to  Shakespeare,  as  poets.     The 
doctrine  appears  to  be  endorsed  by  facts,  and 
therefore  looks  plausible  and  is  readily  accepted 
and  continually  reproduced,  as  on  several  oc- 
casions in  the  history  of  aesthetic  ideas.     It 
was   not  altogether  unknown  in  the  days  of 
Ariosto  himself,  if  Giraldo  Cinzio  can  be  held 
to  have  suggested  it,  when  in  his  description  of 
an  allegorical  picture,  in  which  were  to  be  seen 
the  two  great  Tuscans  **  in  a  green  and  flowery 
meadow  upon  a  hill  of  Helicon,''  Dante,  with 
his  robe  fastened  at  the  knees,  ''  manipulated 
the  circular  scythe,  cutting  all  the  grass  that  his 
scythe  met  with,''  while  Petrarch,  "  robed  in 
senatorial  robe,  lay  there  selecting  among  the 
noble    herbs    and    the    delicate    flowers."     In 
spite  of  this,  it  is  altogether  unsustainable  as  an 


•mmmmmmmmm 


42 


THE    HIGHEST   LOVE 


THE    HIGHEST   LOVE 


43 


111 


u 


ft 


exact  theory,  because  it  introduces  an  unjusti- 
fied and  unjustifiable  dualism,  which  it  is  alto- 
gether impossible  to  mediate,  since  each  of  the 
two  distinct  terms  contains  in  itself  the  other 
and  nothing  else,  thus  demonstrating  their 
identity:  the  poet  is  poet  because  he  is  an  artist, 
that  is  to  say,  he  gives  artistic  form  to  feeling, 
and  the  artist  would  not  be  an  artist,  if  he  were 
not  a  poet,  that  is  to  say,  if  he  had  not  a  feeling 
to  elaborate.  The  apparent  confirmation  of 
this  theory  by  facts  arises  from  this,  that  there 
are  as  we  know,  artists  who  have  a  devotion 
for  cosmic  Harmony  as  their  chief  content,  and 
others  who  have  other  devotions:  and  this 
proves  that  it  is  advisable  to  make  a  very  mod- 
erate and  restrained  use  of  the  distinction  be- 
tween poets  and  artists,  between  those  who  rep- 
resent the  beautiful  and  those  who  represent 
the  real,  as  is  the  case  with  all  empirical  distinc- 
tions. Sometimes  the  same  distinction,  taken 
from  the  bosom  of  poetry  or  of  some  other 
special  art,  has  been  thrown  into  the  midst  of 
the  series  of  the  so-called  arts,  severing  those 
arts  which  have  cosmic  Harmony,  absolute 
Beauty,  ideal  Beauty,  the  rhythm  of  the  Uni- 
verse for  their  object,  from  others  which 
have  for  their  object  individual  feelings  and 


life.    Among  the  former  were  numbered  (as 
in   the    school   of   Winckelmann)    the   art  of 
sculpture  and  certain  sorts  of  painting  at  least, 
and  among  the  latter,  poetry;  or  (according  to 
Schelling  and  Schopenhauer)   bestowing  upon 
music  alone  the  whole  of  the  first  field.     Music 
would  thus  be  opposed  to  the  other  arts  and 
would  possess  the  value  of  an  unconscious  Met- 
aphysic,  in  so  far  as  it  directly  portrayed  the 
rhythm  of  the  Universe  itself.     A  clumsy  doc- 
trine,  which   we    only  mention   here,   because 
Ariosto  would  furnish  the  best  example  of  all 
among  the  poets,  against  the  exclusion  of  poetry 
from  among  the  arts  which  alone  were  able  to 
portray  the  rhythm  of  the  Universe  or  Har- 
mony:    Ariosto,  who,  if  he  had  seemed  to  an 
Italian  philologist  to  be  nothing  less  than  "  a 
poet  who  was  an  excellent  observer  and  rea- 
soner,''  has  yet  appeared  to  Hun^oldt,  whose 
ear  was  more  sensitive  to  the  especially  "  musi- 
cal "  musikalisch,  and  to  Vischer  more  especially 
as  one  who  developed  his  fables  of  chivalry  *'  in 
a  melodious  labyrinth  of  images,  which  pro- 
duced in  its  sensual  serenity  the  same  enjoyment 
as  the  rocking  and  dying  of  the  Italian  can- 
zone," thus  giving  the  reader  "  the  pure  pleas- 
ure of  moving  without  matter." 


'i'P 


I 


44 


THE    HIGHEST   LOVE 


THE   HIGHEST   LOVE 


45 


f 


ti! 


When  empirical  classifications  are  not 
handled  with  caution  and  with  a  consciousness 
of  their  limits,  not  only  do  they  deprive  the 
principles  of  science  of  their  rigour  and  vigour, 
but  also  carry  with  them  the  unfortunate  result 
of  making  it  seem  possible  to  distinguish  con- 
cretely what  has  been  roughly  divided  for  the 
purpose  of  aiding  the  creation  of  images.  The 
double  class  of  poets  and  of  artists,  the  one 
moved  by  particular  affections,  the  other  by 
universal  Harmony,  does  not  hold  as  a  logical 
duality,  because  the  love  of  Harmony  is  itself 
one  of  many  particular  affections,  and  forms 
part  of  the  series  comprising  the  comic,  tragic, 
humorous,  melancholy,  jocose,  pessimistic,  pas- 
sionate, realistic,  classicistic  poets,  and  so  on. 
But  even  when  it  has  been  reduced  to  the  level 
of  the  others,  there  is  no  necessity,  either  in  its 
case  or  in  that  of  the  others,  to  fall  into  the 
illusion  that  there  really  exist  poets  who  are 
only  tragic  or  only  comic,  only  realistic  or  only 
classicistic,  singers  only  of  Harmony,  without 
the  other  passions,  or  solely  passionate  without 
the  passion  for  Harmony.  The  love  of  tradi- 
tional forms,  for  example,  which  we  have  seen 
to  be  the  base  of  classicism,  exists  in  a  certain 
measure  in  every  poet,  for  the  reason  that  every 


poet  employs,  re-lives  and  renews  the  words  of 
a  given  language,  which  has  been  historically 
formed,  and  is  therefore  charged  with  a  liter- 
ary tradition  and  full  of  historical  meaning. 
And  the  love  of  Harmony  exists  also  in  every 
poet  worthy  of  the  name,  since  he  cannot  repre- 
sent his  drama  of  the  affections,  save  as  a  par- 
ticular mode  of  drama  and  of  the  dramatic  or 
dialectic  cosmic  Harmony,  which  is  therefore 
contained  and  dwells  in  it  as  the  universal  in 
the  particular. 

Are  we  ourselves  overthrowing  our  own  dis- 
tinctions, immediately  after  asserting  them? 
We  are  not  overthrowing  the  principles  which 
we  had  established  in  connection  with  the  na- 
ture of  Art,  and  with  the  nature  of  Harmony 
and  Beauty  in  the  super-aesthetic  and  cosmical 
sense ;  but  it  was  necessary  clearly  to  state  and 
to  overthrow  the  definition  of  Ariosto  as  poet 
of  Harmony,  because  in  doing  so,  we  cease  to 
preserve  it  in  its  abstractness,  but  make  use  of 
it  as  a  living  principle.  In  other  words,  by 
thus  defining  him,  we  have  attained  the  first  ob- 
ject of  our  quest,  which  was  no  longer  to  leave 
him  hidden  beneath  the  nebulous  description 
of  a  poet  of  art  for  art's  sake,  nor  beneath  that 
other  equally  fallacious  description  of  him  as  a 


L^-. 


46 


THE   HIGHEST   LOVE 


illi 


satirical  and  ironical  poet,  or  as  a  poet  of  pru- 
dence and  wisdom,  and  so  on;  and  we  have 
pointed  out  where  the  principal  accent  of  his  art 
falls.  Passing  now  to  other  determinations,  In 
order  to  show  in  what  matter  and  in  what  way 
or  tone  that  accent  is  realised,  maintained  and 
developed,  even  when  it  happens  that  we  can 
do  this  in  the  best  possible  manner,  we  shall 
not  allow  ourselves  to  be  ensnared  by  the  fa- 
tuous belief,  in  vogue  with  certain  critics  of  the 
day,  that  we  have  supplied  an  equivalent  to 
Ariosto's  poetry  with  our  aesthetic  formulas: 
such  an  equivalent  would  not  only  be  an  ar- 
rogance, but  it  would  also  be  useless,  because 
Ariosto's  poetry  is  there,  and  anyone  can  see 
it  for  himself.  The  new  determinations  must 
however  also  be  asserted  and  refuted,  only  the 
new  results  being  preserved,  analogous  to  those 
already  obtained,  by  means  of  which  we  shall 
dispose  of  other  false  ideas  circulated  by  the 
critics  concerning  Ariosto  and  point  out  the 
salient  characteristics  of  the  material  which  he 
selected  for  treatment,  together  with  the  mode 
and  the  tone  of  his  poem.  The  poetry  of  the 
Furioso,  as  for  that  matter  all  poetry,  is  an 
individuum  ineffabile,  and  Ariosto,  the  poet  of 
Harmony,  limited  in  this  direction  and  that, 


THE    HIGHEST   LOVE  47 

never  at  any  time  exactly  coincides  with  Ariosto, 
the  Ariostesque  poet,  the  poet  of  Harmony, 
and  not  only  of  Harmony  as  defined  in  the  way 
we  have  defined  it,  but  also  in  other  ways  un- 
derstood or  indefinable.  We  do  not  propose 
to  exhaust  or  to  take  the  place  of  the  concrete 
living  Ariosto;  he  is  indeed  present  to  the  im- 
agination of  our  readers  as  to  our  own  and 
forms  the  perpetual  criterion  of  our  critical 
explanations,  which  without  this  criterion  would 
be  unintelligible. 


II 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  MATERIAL  FOR  THE  HARMONY 

Had  Ariosto  been  a  philosopher  or  a  poet- 
philosopher,  he  would  have  given  us  a  hymn  to 
Harmony,  similar  to  a  good  many  others  which 
are  to  be  found  in  the  history  of  literature, 
celebrating  that  lofty  Idea,  which  enabled  him 
to  understand  the  discordant  concord  of  things 
and  while  satisfying  his  intellect,  filled  his  soul 
with  peace  and  joy.  But  Ariosto  was  the  op- 
posite of  a  philosopher,  and  certainly,  were  he 
able  to  read  what  we  are  now  investigating  and 
discovering  in  him,  first  he  would  be  astonished, 
then  he  would  smile  and  finally  he  would  com- 
ment upon  our  work  with  some  good-natured 
jest. 

His  love  for  Harmony  never  took  the  form 
of  a  concept,  it  was  not  love  of  the  concept  and 
of  the  intelligence,  that  is  to  say  of  things  an- 
swering to  a  need  which  he  did  not  experience : 
it  was  love  for  Harmony  directly  and  ingenu- 
ously perceived,  for  sensible  Harmony:  a  har- 


HARMONIC   MATERIAL        49 

mony,  therefore,  which  did  not  arise  from  a 
loss  of  his  humanity  and  an  abandonment  of  all 
particular  sentiments,  a  religious  mounting  up 
to  the  world  of  the  ideas,  but  existed  for  him 
rather    as    a   sentiment    among   sentiments,    a 
dominant  sentiment,  surrounding  all  the  others 
and  assigning  to  each  its  place.     In  this  respect, 
he  really  belonged  to  one  of  the  chief  spiritual 
currents  of  the  period  of  the  Renaissance,  or 
more  accurately,  of  the  early  Cinquecento :  to 
the   period,    that   is   to   say,   when   Leonardo, 
Raphael,  Fra  Bartolommeo,  Andrea  del  Sarto, 
with  their  beautiful,  harmonious  decorum  and 
majestic  forms,  had  succeeded  to  Ghirlandaio, 
to  Botticelli,  to  Lippi,  when  it  seemed  (in  the 
words   of  Wolfflin,    a   historian   of   art)    "as 
though  new  bodies  had  suddenly  grown  up  in 
Italy,''  a  new  and  magnificent  population,  re- 
splendent in  painting  and  sculpture,  which  was 
indeed  the  reflection  of  a  new  psychical  atti- 
tude, of  a  different  direction  and  of  a  new  centre 

of  interest. 

Now  if  we  undertake  to  consider  the  senti- 
ments which  form  part  of  the  Furioso,  if  we  dis- 
associate them  from  the  connection  established 
among  them  by  the  harmonising  sentiment  of 
Harmony,  and  therefore  in  their  particularity, 


^^- 


50        HARMONIC   MATERIAL 

disaggregation  and  materiality,  we  shall  have 
before  us  the  material  of  the  Furioso.  For  the 
**  material  "  of  Art  is  nothing  but  this,  when 
ideally  distinguished  from  the  content,  in  which 
the  sentiments  themselves  are  fused  in  the 
dominant  sentiment,  whether  it  be  called  the 
leading  motive  or  the  lyrical  motive :  a  content 
which  in  its  turn  can  be  only  ideally  distin- 
guished from  the  form,  in  which  it  expresses  it- 
self or  is  possessed  and  present  in  the  spirit. 
Philological  criticism,  deprived  of  philosophi- 
cal enlightenment,  philology  in  its  bad  sense  or 
philologism,  means  rather  by  *'  material "  or 
'*  sources,''  as  they  are  also  called,  external 
things,  such  as  the  books  which  the  poet  had 
read  or  the  stories  that  he  had  heard  told,  and 
on  the  pretext  of  supplying  in  this  way  the 
genesis  of  a  work  of  art  ab  ovo,  it  penetrates 
to  the  sources  of  the  sources,  let  us  say  to 
the  origins  of  warrior  women,  of  the  ogress 
and  the  hippogryph  of  Ariosto.  Their  pro- 
cedure suggests  that  of  one  who  when  asked 
what  language  a  poet  found  in  circulation  in  his 
time,  should  open  for  that  purpose  an  etymo- 
logical dictionary  of  the  Italian  language,  or  of 
the  romance  languages,  or  of  Indo-European 
languages,  which  expound  formative  ideological 


HARMONIC   MATERIAL        51 

processes,  either  forgotten  or  thrown  into  the 
background  of  the  speaker's  consciousness  when 
engaged  in  speaking.     But  even  if  we  do  not 
lose  our  way  in  such  learned  and  interminable 
dissertations,  if  we  escape  the  error  referred  to 
above,  of  forming  judgments  as  to  merit  upon 
them,  philologistic  search  for  sources  and  for 
material  becomes  capricious  and  ends  by  being 
impossible ;  because  it  takes  as  sources  only  cer- 
tain  literary  lumber  scattered  here  and  there, 
and  were  we  to  unite  this  with  the  whole  of 
the  rest  of  literature,  with  the  figurative  and 
musical  arts,   and  with  other  external  things 
which  actually  surround  the  poet,  public  and  pri- 
vate events,  scientific  teachings  and  disputes, 
beliefs,  customs,  and  so  on,  we  should  find  our- 
selves involved  in  all  endless  and  infinite  enu- 
meration, convincing  proof  of  the  illogical  na- 
ture of  such  an  inquiry.     Nor  do  we  make  any 
progress  in  the  determination  of  the  material  by 
limiting  it  to  more  modest  terms,  that  is  to  say, 
only  to  certain  things  which  the  poet  had  before 
him    (even  if  they  be  documents  and  informa- 
tion, not  without  use  for  certain  ends),  because 
the  true  material  of  art,  as  has  been  said,  is  not 
things  but  the  sentiments  of  the  poet,  which 
determine  and  explain  one  another,  why  and 


^ 


i;  i' 


* 


I- 


i'l 


52        HARMONIC   MATERIAL 

for  what  reason  he  turns  to  certain  things  and 
not  to  others,  to  these  things  rather  than  to 
those.  Since  we  have  already  described  Ari- 
osto's  character  and  shown  its  reflection  in  his 
minor  works,  now  that  we  are  examining  the 
material  of  the  Furioso,  we  shall  find  the  same 
character,  that  is  to  say,  the  same  complex  of 
sentiments  which  it  will  be  desirable  to  illustrate 
and  to  distinguish  in  a  somewhat  different  man- 
ner, with  an  eye  no  longer  directed  to  the  psy- 
chology of  the  man  or  to  the  minor  works,  but 
just  to  the  Furioso. 

And  we  shall  find  above  all  an  amorous 
Ariosto,  Ariosto  perpetually  in  love,  whom  we 
already  know:  an  Ariosto  for  whom  love  and 
woman  are  an  important  affair,  a  great  pleas- 
ure which  he  is  not  able  to  renounce,  a  great 
torment  from  which  he  cannot  set  himself  free. 
That  love  is  always  altogether  sensual,  love  for 
a  beautiful  bodily  form,  shining  forth  in  the 
luminous  eyes,  seductive,  charming;  virtuous 
too,  but  relatively  virtuous,  just  as  much  as 
avails  to  prevent  too  much  poison  entering  into 
the  delicate  linked  tenderness  of  love;  and  for 
this  reason,  all  ethical  or  speculative  idealisa- 
tion, in  the  new  or  Platonic  style,  is  excluded 
(**Not  love   of  a   lady  of  theology  ...'*: 


HARMONIC   MATERIAL        53 

here  too,  Carducci  saw  clearly  and  spoke  well) . 
Absent  too  or  extraneous  are  the  consecration 
and  purification  of  love  in  "  matrimony  " ;  the 
choice  of  a  wife,  the  treatment  of  a  wife,  are 
for  Ariosto,  things  differing  but  slightly  from 
the   choice   and  the  breaking  in  of   a   horse, 
and  matrimony  in  its  noble  ethical  sense  be- 
longs at  the  most  to  his  intellect,  and  to  his  in- 
tellect in  so  far  as  it  is  passive :  in  the  Furioso  ^ 
are  to  be  found  the  politics  and  not  the  poetry 
of  matrimony,  and  among  innumerable  ties  of 
free  love,  the  chaste  sighing  of  Bradamante 
alone  aims  at  *'  the  conjugal  tie ''  with  Rug- 
giero.     But  the  love  of  Ariosto  is  healthy  and 
natural  in  its  warm  sensuality;  it  is  not  sophisti- 
cated with  luxurious  images,  it  is  conscious  of 
its  own  limits;  nor  does  it  suffer  from  mad  or 
inextinguishable   desires,   but   only   from  that 
which  was  known  in  the  language  of  the  time 
as  the  "  cruelty  "  of  woman,  her  refusal  or  her 
coldness;  but  it  tortures  itself  yet  more  with 
jealousy  and  the  anxious  working  of  the  im- 
agination.    The    Ferrarese    Garofalo,    a    con- 
temporary  biographer,    bears   witness   to    the 
very  lively  jealousy  of  Ariosto,    saying  that 
since  he  loved  "with  a  great  vehemence,"  he 
was  **  above  measure  jealous,"   and  "  always 


^  ii! 


n  I 


ll 


,M 


54        HARMONIC   MATERIAL 

carried  on  his  love  affairs  in  secret  and  with 
great  solicitude,  accompanied  with  much  mod- 
esty '' ;  but  this  is  evident  in  the  matter  of  the 
poem  itself,  being  exhibited  in  many  of  his  per- 
sonages, descriptions  and  situations,  and  finding 
complete  expression  in  the  verse  which  closes 
on  so  pathetic  a  note:  **  believe  one  who  has 
had  experience  of  it."  Cruelty  on  the  one  side 
and  jealousy  on  the  other,  although  they  tor- 
ture, do  not  make  him  sad  or  cause  him  to  give 
vent  to  desperate  utterances,  because,  since  he 
had  not  too  lofty  nor  too  madly  an  intransigent 
idea  of  love,  although  it  greatly  delighted  him, 
he  is  not  apt  to  expect  too  much  from  it,  and 
knowing  the  infidelity  and  the  fragility  of  man, 
a  sort  of  sense  of  justice  forbids  him  from 
bringing  his  hand  down  too  heavily  upon  the 
infidelity  and  the  fragility  of  woman.  Hence 
comes,  not  forgiveness,  but  resignation  and  in- 
dulgence. "  My  lady  is  a  lady,  and  every  lady 
is  weak  '' ;  remarks  Rinaldo  wisely.  Ariosto's 
is  an  indulgence  without  moral  elevation,  but 
also  without  cynicism  and  inspired  with  a  cer- 
tain element  of  goodness  and  humanity.  Re- 
ciprocal deception  and  illusion  are  inherent  to 
love  affairs;  but  how  can  they  be  done  away 
with,  without  also  doing  away  at  the  same  time 


HARMONIC   MATERIAL        55 

with  the  charm  of  that  bitter  but  amiable  sport? 
The  lover  takes  care  to  preserve  the  illusion  by 
his  very  passion,  which  blinds  him  to  what  is 
visible  and  makes  the  invisible  visible,  leading 
him  to  believe  what  he  desires,  to  believe  the 
person  who  fascinates  him,  as  does  Brandimarte 
with  his  Fiordiligi,  wandering  about  the  world 
and  returning  to  him  uncontaminated :     "To 
fair  Fiordiligi,  of  whom  I  had  believed  greater 
things."     Thus  the  imagination  of  Ariosto,  as 
these  various  equal  and  conflicting  sentiments 
wove  their  own  images,  became  quite  filled  with 
marvellous  seductive  beauties,  perfect  of  limb, 
and  with  voluptuous  forms  and  scenes  (Alcina 
and  her  arts,  Angelica  in  the  arms  of  Ruggiero 
who  had  set  her  free,  Fiordispina) ;  of  others 
which  oscillate  between  the  passionate  and  the 
comic  (Gicondo  and  Fiametta,  the  knight  who 
tests  the  wife  he  loves  too  much,  the  judge  An- 
selmo  and  his  Argia)  :  of  others  whose  love 
was  unworthy  or  criminal  (Origille,  whom  Gri- 
fone  strives  to  save  from  the  punishment  that 
she  deserves,  notwithstanding  her  wickedness 
proved  on  several  occasions  and  her  known 
treachery;  the  sons  of  King  Marganorre;  Gab- 
rina,  who  did  receive  punishment,  perhaps  be- 
cause  her  depraved  old  age  was  so  repulsive)  ; 


56 


HARMONIC   MATERIAL 


HARMONIC   MATERIAL        57 


and  above  all  of  the  woman  who  symbolises 
Woman,  for  whom  the  bravest  knights  sustain 
every  sort  of  labour  and  danger,  and  because 
of  whom  a  big  strong  man  loses  control  of  him- 
self, and  who,  herself  slave  of  a  love  which 
owns  no  law  outside  itself,  ends  by  bestowing 
her  hand  upon  a  *'  poor  servant ''  (Angelica, 
Orlando  and  Medoro).  These  are  but  a  few 
instances  of  the  many  places  in  the  Furioso, 
bearing  upon  love  in  its  various  modes  of  pre- 
sentation, in  addition  to  the  introductions  to  the 
cantos  and  the  digressions  into  which  Ariosto 
pours  his  whole  store  of  feeling  or  sets  forth  his 
reflections.  And  the  love  matter  is  of  so  great 
a  volume  as  to  dominate  all  the  rest,  possibly  in 
extent,  certainly  in  relief  and  intensity;  so  much 
so,  that  it  is  a  marvel  that  among  the  many  at- 
tempts to  establish  the  true  motive  and  argu- 
ment of  the  poem,  by  abstracting  it  from  its 
subject  matter,  and  to  determine  its  design  and 
unity  in  the  same  way,  no  one  has  yet  insisted 
upon  considering  it,  or  has  been  able  to  consider 
it  as  "  the  poem  of  love,''  of  the  casuistry  of 
love,  to  which  knightly  and  warlike  life  should 
but  provide  the  decorative  background.  This 
theory  would  certainly  seem  to  be  less  unlikely 
than  the  other,  which  assigns  to  it  as  its  end 


and  unity  the  war  between  Carlo  and  Agra- 
mante.  In  any  case,  this  motive  is  placed  sec- 
ond in  the  protasis  to  the  Furioso,  where  the 
first  word  is  not  by  chance  *'  women,"  and  the 
first  verse  ends  with  "  loves  "  (and  in  the  first 
edition  we  even  read:  "The  ancient  loves  of 
ladies  and  of  knights");  and  the  scene  with 
which  the  poem  opens  is  the  flight  of  Angelica, 
who  is  immediately  met  by  Sacripante  and 
Rinaldo  who  are  in  love  with  her,  and  that  with 
which  it  concludes  is  the  marriage  feast  of  Rug- 
giero  and  Bradamante,  disturbed  yet  heightened 
in  its  solemnity  of  celebration  by  the  incident  of 
the  duel  with  Rodomonte. 

Love  matter  dominates  in  the  Furioso,  be- 
cause it  dominated  in  the  heart  of  Ariosto, 
where  it  easily  passed  over  into  more  noble  feel- 
ings, into  piety  that  goes  beyond  the  tomb,  into 
justice  rendered  to  calumniated  innocence,  into 
kindness  ill-recompensed,  into  admiration  for 
the  sacred  tie  of  friendship.  Hence,  in  marked 
contrast  to  the  beautiful  Doralice,  so  crudely  ' 
sensual,  that  when  her  lover's  body  is  still  warm, 
she  is  capable  of  looking  with  desire  upon  his 
slayer,  the  valiant  Ruggiero,  Isabella  deliber- 
ately decides  upon  putting  herself  to  death  that 
she  may  keep  faith  with  her  dead  lover;  and 


58 


HARMONIC   MATERIAL 


Fiordiligi,  whose  pretty  little  face,  upon  which 
still  flitters  something  of  the  impudence  at- 
tributed to  her  by  Boiardo,  becomes,  furrowed 
with  anguish  and  sublime  with  sorrow,  when  she 
apprehends  the  loss  of  Brandimarte.  And 
Olympia  stands  by  the  side  of  Ginevra,  trapped 
and  drawn  to  the  brink  of  ruin  by  a  wicked  man, 
and  is  rescued  by  Rinaldo,  the  righter  of 
wrongs,  Olympia  whom  Orlando  twice  saves, 
the  second  time  not  only  from  death,  but  from 
desperation  at  the  desertion  of  her  most  thank- 
less husband.  Zerbino,  brother  of  Ginevra  and 
lover  of  Isabella,  is  a  flower  of  nobility  among 
the  knights.  He  alone  understands  and  pities 
the  affectionate  deed  of  Medoro,  careless  of  his 
own  life  and  absorbed  in  the  anxiety  to  obtain 
burial  for  the  body  of  his  lord.  When  his 
former  friend  who  has  shown  himself  to  be  a 
most  infamous  traitor,  is  dragged  before  him  in 
chains,  he  cannot  find  it  in  him  to  inflict  upon 
him  the  death  he  deserves,  for  he  remembers 
their  long  and  close  friendship.  Devoted  to 
the  greatness  of  Orlando  and  in  gratitude  for 
what  he  had  done  in  saving  and  taking  care  of 
Isabella,  he  collects  the  arms  of  the  Paladin, 
scattered  at  the  outbreak  of  his  madness,  and 
sustains  a  combat  with  Mandricardo  for  these 


HARMONIC   MATERIAL        59 

arms,  dying  rather  for  sorrow  at  not  hav- 
ing been  able  to  defend  them  than  from  his 
wound.  Cloridano  and  Medoro,  Orlando  and 
Brandimarte,  are  other  idealisations  of  a 
friendship  which  lasts  beyond  the  tomb;  and 
anyone  searching  the  poem  for  motives  of  com- 
miseration and  indignation  for  oppressed  vir- 
tue, for  unhappy  peoples  trodden  beneath  the 
heel  of  the  tyrant,  robbed,  tortured  and  allowed 
to  perish  like  cattle  and  goats,  would  find  other 
instances  of  the  goodness  and  generosity  which 
burned  in  the  mild  Ariosto. 

Goodness  and  generosity  were  also  the  sub- 
stance of  his  political  sentiment,  which  was  that 
of  the  honest  man  of  all  times,  who  laments  the 
misfortunes  of  his  country,  loathes  the  domina- 
tion  of  foreigners,  judges  the  oppression  of  the 
nobles  with  severity,  is  scandalised  by  the  cor- 
ruption and  hypocrisy  of  the  priests  and  of  the 
Church,  regrets  that  the  united  arms  of  Europe 
cannot  prevail  against  the  Turks,  that  barba- 
rian ''  of  ill  omen  " ;  but  it  does  not  go  beyond 
this  superficial  impressionability,  and  ends  by 
accepting   his   own   times    and   respecting   the 
powerful  personages  who  have  finally  prevailed. 
For  this  reason  there  is  but  slight  interest  in 
noting   (and  it  can  be  noted  In  the  Furioso 


6o        HARMONIC   MATERIAL 

Itself)  the  variety  of  the  political  ideas  of 
Ariosto,  first  hostile  to  the  Spaniards,  as  we  see 
from  several  references  to  them,  and  from  cer- 
tain attributes  given  to  the  Spaniard  Ferrau, 
and  finally  to  the  French,  who  had  lost  the 
game  in  Italy,  and  we  find  him  extolling  the 
Spanish-Imperial  Carlo  V.,  and  those  who 
maintain  his  cause  in  Italy,  whether  they  were 
Andrea  Doria  or  the  Avalos.  But  on  the  other 
hand,  as  we  have  already  said,  it  is  unjust  to 
reprove  him  for  not  having  been  a  champion  of 
italianity  and  of  rebellion  against  tyrants  and 
foreigners, —  such  existed  in  those  days,  al- 
though they  were  rare  —  or  a  passionate  po- 
litical thinker  and  prophet,  like  Machiavelli. 
f  The  famous  invective  against  firearms  suffices 
''  to  indicate  the  quality  of  Ariosto's  politics:  for 
;  him  politics  were  morality,  private  morality,  a 
^  morality  but  little  combative  and  very  idyllic, 
although  not  vulgar,  disdainful  indeed  of  the 
vulgar  of  all  sorts,  however  fortunate  and 
highly  placed.  Thus  it  was  not  such  as  to  cre- 
ate figures  and  scenes  in  the  poem,  like  love  and 
human  piety;  suffice  that  if  it  insinuated  itself 
here  and  there  among  the  reflective,  exclama- 
tory and  hortatory  octaves. 

His  feeling  towards  his  own  sovereign  lords, 


HARMONIC   MATERIAL        6i 

the  Estes,  has  not,  as  we  have  suggested,  either 
in  his  soul  or  in  the  Furioso,  anything  in  It  of 
the  specifically  political,  although  he  admired 
them  for  the  splendour  of  art  and  letters,  which 
they  and  their  predecessors  had  conferred  upon 
the  country,  and  for  the  strength  of  their  rule. 
And  he  praised  them  with  words  and  compar- 
isons, which  he  introduced  into  his  poem  on  a 
large  scale,  and  into  the  general  scheme  itself. 
These  have  at  times  been  held  to  be  base  adula- 
tion or  a  subtle  form  of  irony  almost  amounting 
to  sarcasm;  they  were  however  neither,  being 
serious  celebrations  of  glorious  military  enter- 
prises and  of  magnanimous  acts   (it  does  not 
matter  whether  they  really  were  so  or  seemed 
so  and  were  bound  to  seem  so  to  him)  ;  and  for 
the  rest,   and  especially  as   far  as  concerned 
Cardinal  Hippolyto,  they  resemble  the  mad- 
rigals  addressed  to  ladies  or  their  attendants, 
which  always  contain  a  vein  of  mockery  mingled 
with  the  hyperbole  of  their  compliments.     In 
fact  he  treated  this  material  as  an  imaginative 
theme,  now  decorous  and  grave,  now  elegant 
and  polished  as  by  a  courtier;  and  he  would 
have  been  still  more  inclined  to  treat  the  Estes 
in  this  way,  had  they  in  return  for  his  words 
and  "  works  of  ink ''  dispensed  him  from  the 


II!         '        ' 

(i 


V 


62 


HARMONIC   MATERIAL 


I 


duties  of  his  post,  and  particularly  from  those 
which  obliged  him  to  run  hither  and  thither,  to 
behave  like  a  "  teamster."  Like  many  peace- 
ful individuals,  who  have  no  taste  for  finding 
themselves  in  the  midst  of  battles,  or  for  chang- 
ing the  place  of  their  abode,  or  for  travelling 
to  see  foreign  races,  or  for  voyages,  or  for 
rapid  ups  and  downs  and  adventures,  or  for  any- 
thing of  an  upsetting  and  extraordinary  nature 
that  happens  unexpectedly,  he  was  quite  ready 
to  accept  all  these  things  in  his  imagination, 
where  he  preserved,  caressed  and  made  idols  of 
them.  His  inclination  imaginatively  to  dec- 
orate the  Estes,  the  nobles  of  Italy,  great  ladies, 
artists,  good  or  bad  men  of  letters  of  any  sort, 
to  make  radiant  statues  of  them,  had  the  same 
root  as  his  inclination  for  stories  of  knightly 
romance. 

These  stories  were  the  favourite  reading,  the 
"  pleasant  literature  "  of  good  society,  espe- 
cially In  Ferrara,  where  the  Estes  possessed  a 
fine  collection  in  their  library,  whence  had  come 
the  majority  of  Italian  poets,  who  had  versified 
them  during  the  previous  century,  setting  them 
free  from  plebeian  prose  and  verse.  Ariosto 
must  have  read  very  many  of  these  in  his  youth, 
and  must  have  delighted  In  them,  and  we  know 


HARMONIC  MATERIAL        63 

that  he  himself  translated  some  from  French 
and  Spanish.     Here  were  to  be  found  terrible 
and  tremendous  battles,  duels  of  hard  knocks 
and  of  masterly  blows,  combats  with  giants  and 
monsters,     tragical     situations,     magnanimous 
deeds,  proofs  of  steadfast  faith,  a  vying  to- 
gether of  loyalty  and  courtesy,  persecutions  and 
favours  and  aid  afforded  by  prodigious  beings, 
by   fairies    and   magicians,   travels    In   distant 
lands,  by  sea  or  by  flight,  enchanted  gardens 
and    palaces,    knights    of    Immense    strength, 
Christian   and  Saracen,   warlike   women   and 
women  who  were  women,  royally:  all  this  gave 
him  the   desirable  and  agreeable  pleasure  of 
one  who  looks  on  at  a  variously  coloured  ex- 
hibition of  fireworks,  and  owing  to  this  pleas- 
ure they  gave,  he  Incorporated  a  great  number 
of  them  In  the  Furioso.     It  Is  superfluous  to 
inquire  whether  the  material  of  chivalry  ap- 
peared to  him  to  be  serious  or  burlesque,  when 
we   have   understood   the    feeling   which   led 
him  In  that  direction:  it  was  beyond  all  judg- 
ment of  that  sort,  because  we  do  not  judge 
rockets  or  fireworks  morally  or  economically, 
with  approval  or  reproof.     It  can  of  course  be 
remarked  that  knightly  tales  had  henceforth 
been  reduced  to  such  an  extent  In  Italy  and  in 


p'^ 


i 


1: 


64        HARMONIC   MATERIAL 

the  spirit  of  Ariosto  that  they  were  not  only 
without  the  religious  and  national  feeling  of  the 
ancient  epic,  but  even  without  what  is  still  to  be 
found  in  certain  popular  Italian  compilations, 
such  as  the  Monarchs  of  France;  but  this  ob- 
servation, though  correct  and  important  enough 
in  the  history  of  culture,  has  no  meaning  what- 
ever as  regards  Ariosto's  poetry.  The  fact 
that  Ariosto  was  sometimes  entranced  and  car- 
ried away  as  it  were  by  the  spectacles  which  his 
fancy  presented  to  him,  and  sometimes  kept 
aloof  from  them,  with  a  smile  for  commentary, 
or  turned  away  towards  the  real  world  that  sur- 
rounded him,  goes  without  saying,  and  does  not 
appear  to  demand  the  discussions  and  the  in- 
tellectual efforts  which  have  been  devoted  to  it. 
His  was  on  the  other  hand  a  distinctly  jest- 
ing outlook  upon  religious  beliefs,  God,  Christ, 
Paradise,  angels  and  saints;  and  Charlemagne's 
prayer  to  God,  the  vision  of  the  angel  Michael 
upon  earth  and  the  voyage  of  Astolfo  to  the 
world  of  the  Moon,  his  conversations  with  John 
the  Evangelist,  the  deeds  and  words  of  the 
hermit  with  whom  Angelica  and  Isabella  find 
themselves,  and  finally  those  of  the  saintly 
hermit  who  baptises  Ruggiero,  accord  with  this 
laughing  and  almost  mocking  spirit.     Here  we 


HARMONIC   MATERIAL        65 

do  not  find  even  the  seriousness  of  the  game  and 
in  the  game,  with  which  he  treats  of  knightly 
doings ;  nor  could  there  be,  because  relation  to- 
wards religion  admits  only  of  complete  rever- 
ence   or   complete   irreverence.     And   Ariosto 
was  irreverent,   or  what  comes  to  the   same  j 
thing,  indifferent;  his  spirit  was  as  areligious 
as    it   was    aphilosophical,    untormented   with 
doubts,  not  concerned  with  human  destiny,  in- 
curious as  to  the  meaning  and  value  of  this 
world,  which  he  saw  and  touched,  and  in  which 
he  loved  and  suffered.     He  was  altogether  out- 
side the  philosophy  of  the  Renaissance,  whether 
Ficino's  or  Pomponazzi's,   as  he  was  outside 
every  sort  of  philosophy.     This  limits  and  as 
it  were  deprives  of  importance  his  mockeries 
and  to  salute  him  as  some  have  done  "  the 
Voltaire  of  the  Renaissance  ''  or  as  a  precursor 
of  Voltaire,  and  Voltaire  himself  who  so  much 
enjoyed  Ariosto's  profanations  of  sacred  things, 
maliciously  underlining  the  witticism  that  es- 
capes from  the  lips  of  St.  John  about  ''my 
much-praised  Christ''   (after  having  said  that 
writers  turn  the  true  into  the  false,  and  the 
false  into  the  true,  and  that  he  also  had  been 
a  "  writer  "  in  the  world),  has  given  Ariosto  a 
place  which  does  not  belong  to  him   at   all. 


66 


HARMONIC   MATERIAL 


ir 


Voltaire  was  not  areligious  or  indifferent,  and 
was  only  irreligious  in  so  far  as  he  attacked  all 
historical  religions  with  a  religion  of  his  own, 
which  was  deism  or  the  religion  of  the  reason ; 
and  for  this  reason  his  satires  and  his  lampoons 
possess  a  polemical  value,  which  is  not  to  be 
found  in  the  jests  of  Ariosto. 

Presented  in  its  outstanding  features,  and  to 
the  extent  which  suits  our  purpose,  such  is  the 
complex  of  sentiments  which  flowed  together  to 
form  the  Furioso  and  to  produce  the  images  of 
which  it  consists.  They  produced  them  all 
the  same,  where  he  seems  to  have  taken 
them  from  other  poems  or  books,  from  Vir- 
gil  or  from  Ovid,  from  French  or  Spanish  ro- 
mances, because  in  the  taking  and  with  the 
taking  of  them,  he  made  them  images  of  his 
own  sentiment,  that  is  to  say,  he  breathed  into 
them  a  new  life  and  poetically  created  them  in 
so  doing.  But  although  this  material  of  the 
poem  may  seem  to  us  who  have  considered  it  to 
be  anterior  and  external  to  the  poem  itself  and 
owing  to  our  analysis,  disaggregated,  it  must 
not  be  supposed  that  those  sentiments  ever  ex- 
isted in  the  spirit  of  Ariosto  as  mere  matter  or 
in  an  amorphous  condition,  because  there  is 
nothing  in  the  spirit  without  some  form  and 


HARMONIC   MATERIAL        67 

without  its  own  form.     Indeed,  we  have  seen  a 
great  part  of  it  take  form  in  the  minor  works, 
while  some  dwelt  in  his  mind,  expressed  and 
realised  in  their  own  way,  even  if  unfulfilled  or 
if  we  lack  written  record  of  their  existence. 
But  they  possessed  a  different  aspect  in  this  an- 
terior form,  differing  therefore  from  that  which 
they  assumed  in  the  poem.     In  the  lyrics  and 
satires,  words  of  love  and  nostalgia,  of  friend- 
ship  and  complaint,  of  anger  and  indignation 
against  princes  who  take  little  interest  in  poets, 
of  impatience  and  contempt  for  the  ambitious 
throng,  and  the  like,  are  more  lively  and  direct; 
and  it  would  be  easy  to  find  parallels  for  identi- 
cal thoughts  appearing  with  different  intona- 
tions in  the  two  different  places.     Had  Ariosto 
always  accorded  artistic  treatment  to  those  sen- 
timents at  the  moment  of  experiencing  them,  he 
would  have  continued  to  write  songs,  sonnets, 
epistles  and  satires,  and  would  not  have  set  to 
work  upon  the  Furioso,     An  examination  of 
the  poem  upon  Obizzo  D'Este  as  to  the  ma- 
terial of  chivalry,  or  if  we  like  the  sound  of  it 
better,  as  to  feats  of  arms  and  of  daring,  will 
at  least  yield  us  a  glimpse  of  what  it  would  have 
become,  had  it  received  immediate  treatment, 
whether  this  poem  belongs  tP  the  early  years  of 


(/^'"^ 


68 


HARMONIC   MATERIAL 


I'  ill 


Ariosto,  prior  to  the  composition  of  the 
Furioso,  or  whether  (as  is  more  probable),  it 
be  later  than  the  composition  of  the  poem  and 
the  appearance  of  the  first  edition.  The  frag- 
ment is  notable  for  its  great  limpidity  and  narra- 
tive fluency,  but  one  sees  that  if  the  poet  had 
continued  in  this  direction,  the  poem  would  have 
been  nothing  but  an  elegant  book  of  songs; 
Ariosto  did  not  wish  to  be  a  song-writer,  so  he 
ceased  the  work  which  had  been  begun.  Had 
he  versified  his  mockeries  of  sacred  things,  he 
would  have  become  a  wit,  a  collector  of  bur- 
lesque surprises,  capable  of  arousing  laughter 
about  friars  and  saints;  but  Ariosto  disdained 
such  a  trade,  Ariosto  whose  many  grandiose  dis- 
tractions are  on  record,  but  no  witticisms  or 
smart  sayings :  he  was  too  much  of  a  dreamer, 
too  fine  an  artist  to  take  pleasure  in  such  things. 
His  sentiment  for  Harmony  aided  him  to  turn 
the  pleasant  stories  of  chivalry  and  capricious 
jesting  into  poetry,  and  lesser  erotic  or  narra- 
tive and  argumentative  poetry  into  more  com- 
plex poetry,  to  accomplish  the  passage  and  as- 
cent from  the  minor  works  to  that  which  is 
truly  great,  to  mediate  the  immediate,  by 
transforming  his  various  sentiments  in  the  man- 
ner that  we  are  about  to  consider. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  REALISATION  OF  HARMONY         ^ 

The  first  change  to  manifest  itself  in  them  so 
soon  as  they  were  touched  by  the  Harmony 
which  sang  at  the  bottom  of  the  poet's  heart, 
was  their  loss  of  autonomy,  their  submission 
to  a  single  lord,  their  descent  from  being  the 
whole  to  becoming  a  part,  their  becoming  oc- 
casions  rather  than  motives,  instruments  rather 
than  ends,  their  common  death  for  the  benefit 

of  the  new  life. 

The  magical  power  which  accomplished  this 
prodigy  was  the  tone  of  the  expnession,  that  self- 
possessed,  lightness  of  tone,  capable  of  adopting 
a  thousand  forms  and  remaining  ever  graceful, 
known  to  the  old  school  of  critics  as  **  the  con- 
fidential air,''  and  remembered  among  the  other 
"  properties  "  of  the  ''  style  "  of  Ariosto.  But 
not  only  does  his  whole  style  consist  of  this, 
but  since  style  is  nothing  but  the  expression  of 
the  poet  and  of  his  soul,  this  was  all  Ariosto 
himself  and  his  harmonious  singing. 

69 


i.-< 


\ 
\ 


(/ 


»   ^^ 


70 


HARMONY 


HARMONY 


n 


This  work  of  disvaluation  and  destruction  is 
to  be  detected  in  the  expressive  tone  in  the 
proems  to  the  separate  cantos,  in  the  digressive 
argumentations,  in  the  observations  interjected, 
in  the  repetitions,  in  the  use  of  vocables,  in  the 
phrasing  and  the  arrangement  of  periods,  and 
above  all  in  the  frequent  comparisons  that  form 
pictures  which  rather  than  intensifying  the  emo- 
tion, cause  it  to  take  a  different  path,  in  the  in- 
terruptions to  the  narrative,  sometimes  occur- 
ring at  their  most  dramatic  point,  in  the  nimble 
passage  to  other  narratives  of  a  different  and 
often  opposite  nature.  Yet  the  palpable  part 
of  this  whole,  what  it  is  possible  to  segregate 
and  to  analyse  as  elements  of  style,  forms  but  a 
small  part  of  the  impalpable  whole,  which  flows 
along  like  a  tenuous  fluid,  and  since  it  is  soul,  we 
feel  it  with  our  soul,  though  we  cannot  touch  it 
with  our  hands,  even  though  they  be  armed  with 
scholastic  pincers. 

And  this  tone  is  the  often  noted  and  named, 
but  never  clearly  defined  irony  of  Ariosto;  it 
has  not  been  well-defined,  because  described  as 
a  kind  of  jesting  or  mockery,  similar  or  coinci- 
dent with  what  Ariosto  sometimes  employed  in 
his  descriptions  of  knightly  personages  and  their 
adventures.     It  has  thus  been  both  restricted 


and  materialised,  but  what  we  must  not  lose 
sight  of  is  that  the  irony  is  not  restricted  to  one 
order  of  sentiments,  as  for  instance  those  of 
knighthood  or  religion,  and  so  spares  the  rest, 
but  encompasses  them  all,  and  thus  is  no  futile 
jesting,  but  something  far  more  lofty,  more 
purely  artistic  and  poetical,  the  victory  of  the 
dominant  sentiment  over  all  the  others.^ 

All  the   sentiments,   sublime   and  mirthful, 
tender  and  strong,  the  effusions  of  the  heart  and 
the  workings  of  the  intellect,  from  the  plead- 
ings  of  love  to  the  laudatory  lists  of  names, 
from  representations  of  battles  to  witticisms, 
are  alike  levelled  by  the  irony  and  find  them- 
selves uplifted  in  it.     The  marvellous  Anos- 
tesque  octave  rises  above  them  all  as  they  fall 
before  it,  the  octave  which  has  a  life  of  its  own. 
To  describe  the  octave  as  smiling,  would  be  an 
insufficient  qualification  unless  the  smile  be  un- 
derstood  in  the  ideal  sense,  as  a  manifestation  ot 
free  and  harmonious  life,  poised  and  energetic, 
throbbing  in  veins  rich  with  good  blood  and 
satisfied  in  this  incessant  throbbing.     The  oc- 
taves sometimes  have  the  quality  of  radiant 
maidens,   sometimes  of   shapely  youths,   with 
limbs  lithe  from  exercise  of  the  muscles,  careless 
of  exhibiting  their  prowess,  because  it  is  re- 


Ll. 


72 


H  A  R  MO  N  Y 


vealed  in  their  every  gesture  and  attitude. — 
Olympia  comes  ashore  with  her  lover  on  a  deso- 
late and  deserted  island,  after  many  mis- 
fortunes, and  a  long,  tempestuous  sea  voyage: 

II  travagh'o  del  mare  e  la  paura, 

che  tenuta  alcun  di  I'aveano  desta; 

II  ritrovarsi  al  lito  ora  sicura, 

lontana  da  rumor,  nella  foresta: 

e  che  nessun  pensier,  nessuna  cura, 

poi  che*l  suo  amante  ha  seco,  la  molesta; 

fur  cagion  ch'ebbe  Olimpia  si  gran  sonno 

che  gli  orsi  e  i  ghiri  aver  maggior  nol  ponno.^ 

Here  we  have  the  complete  analysis  of  the 
reasons  why  Olympia  fell  into  the  deep  sleep, 
expressed  with  precision;  but  all  this  is  clearly 
secondary  to  the  intimate  sentiment  expressed 
by  the  octave,  which  seems  to  enjoy  itself,  and 
certainly  does  so  in  describing  a  motion,  a  be- 
coming, which  attain  completion. —  Brada- 
mante  and  Marfisa  vainly  pursue  King  Agra- 
mante,  to  put  him  to  death: 

Come  due  belle  e  generose  parde 
che  fuor  del  lascio  sien  di  pari  uscite, 

1  Tempestuous  seas  and  haunting  fear  which  had  kept  her 
waking  for  days  now  gave  place  to  a  feeling  of  security: 
deep  in  the  forest  and  renaoved  from  care  and  noise, 
Olympia  clasped  her  lover  to  her  breast  and  fell  into  sleep 
as  deep  as  that  of  bears  and  dormice. 


/ 


HARMONY  73 

poscia  ch'  i  cervi  o  le  capre  gagliarde 
indarno  aver  si  veggano  seguite, 
vergognandosi  quasi  che  fur  tarde, 
sdegnose  se  ne  tornano  e  pentite ; 
cosi  tornar  le  due  donzelle,  quando 
videro  il  Pagan  salvo,  sospirando.^ 

Here  we  find  a  like  process  and  a  like  result, 
but  we  observe  a  like  process  and  result  where 
there  appears  to  be  nothing  whatever  of  in- 
trinsic interest  in  the  subject,  that  is  to  say, 
where  the  thought  is  merely  conventional,   a 
complimentary  expression  of  courtly  homage  or 
an  expression  of  friendship  and  esteem.     To 
say  of  a  fair  lady:     "  She  seemed  in  every  act 
of    hers    to   be    a    Goddess    descended    from 
heaven,''  is  not  a  subtle  figure,  but  it  is  so  turned 
and  so  inspired  with  rhythm  by  Ariosto  that  we 
assist  at  the  manifestation  of  the  Goddess  as 
she  moves  majestically  along,  witnessing  the 
astonishment  of  those  present  and  seeing  them 
kneel  devoutly  down,  as  the  little  drama  un- 
rolls itself: 

lAs  two  fair  generous  leopards  issuing  simultaneouly 
from  the  slips  return  full  of  shame  and  repentance  as  though 
weighed  down  by  the  disgrace  of  having  vainly  pursued  the 
lusty  goats  or  stags  which  had  tempted  them  to  the  chase: 
So  returned  the  two  damsels  sighing  when  they  saw  the 
Pagan  was  saved. 


74 


HARMONY 


Julia  Gonzaga,  che  dovunque  II  piedc 

volge  e  dovunque  i  sereni  occhi  gira, 

non  pur  ogn'  altra  di  belta  le  cede, 

ma,  come  scesa  dal  ciel  Dea,  I'ammira.*  .  .  . 

To  rattle  off  a  list  of  mere  names  with  a 
view  to  affording  honourable  mention,  and  with- 
out varying  any  of  them  beyond  the  addition  of 
some  slight  word-play,  is  an  exercise  even  less 
subtle  Lbut  Arlosto  arranges  the  names  of  con- 
temporary painters  as  though  upon  a  Parnassus, 
according  to  the  greatest  among  them  the  most 
lofty  place,  in  such  a  manner  that  those  bare 
names  each  of  them  resound  (owing  to  the  mas- 
tery of  the  many  stresses  in  the  verse),  so  as  to 
seem  alive  and  endowed  with  sensation: 

E  quel  che  furo  a'  nostri  di,  o  sono  ora, 
Leonardo,  Andrea  Mantegna,  Gian  Bellino, 
duo  Dossi,  e  quel  ch'  a  par  sculpe  e  colora, 
Michel,  piu  che  mortale.  Angel  divino.  .  .  ? 

The  "  reflections  "  of  Ariosto,  which  were  held 
to  be  "  commonplaces  ''  by  De  Sanctis,  "  not 
profound  and  original  observations,^'  have  by 

^  V^hercver  Julia  Gonzaga  sets  her  foot  or  turns  her  serene 
gaze,  not  only  does  she  excel  all  in  beauty  but  compels  adora- 
tion like  a  Goddess. 

2  And  the  painters  who  lived  in  former  days  as  well  as 
those  still  with  us:  —  Leonardo,  A.  Mantegna,  Gian  Bellino, 
the  two  Dossi  and  Michael  who  sculptures  and  portrays 
with  more  than  mortal  skill. 


HARMONY 


75 


others  been  described  as  "  banal "  and  "  con- 
tradictory."  But  they  are  reflections  of  Ari- 
osto, which  should  not  be  meditated  upon  but 
sung: 


Oh  gran  contrasto  in  giovanil  pensiero, 
desir  di  laude,  ed  impeto  d'  Amorel 
Ne,  chi  piu  vaglia,  ancor  si  trova  il  veto, 
che  resta  or  questo  or  quello  superiore.  .  . 


It  could  be  said  of  the  irony  of  Ariosto,  that  it 
is  like  the  eye  of  God,  who  looks  upon  the 
mo;;^ent  of  creation,  of  all  creation,  loving  all 
things  equally,  good  and  evil,  the  very  great  and 
the  very  small  in  man  and  in  the  grain  of  sand, 
because  he  has  made  it  all,  and  finds  in  it  nought 
but  motion  itself,  eternal  dialectic,  rhythm  and 
harmony.     From  the  ordinary  meaning  of  the 
word  "  irony  "  has  been  accomplished  the  pas- 
sage to  the  metaphysical  meaning  assumed  by 
it  among  Fichtians  and  Romantics.     We  should 
be  ready  to  apply  their  theory  to  the  inspira- 
tion  of  Ariosto,    save   that  these   critics  and 
thinkers  confused  with  irony  what  is  called  hu- 
mour,  strangeness   and   extravagance,   that  is 

1  Oh  powerful  contrast  in  the  breast  of  youth  aflame  with 
desire  for  valorous  renown  and  the  passion  of  love;  nor 
can  one  say  which  is  the  more  delectable,  since  each  lays 
claim  alternately   to  superiority. 


r 


76 


HARMONY 


HARMONY 


77 


lijfl:: 


w 


to  say,  extra-aesthetic  facts,  which  contaminate 
and  dissolve  art.  Our  theory  on  the  contrary 
is  less  pretentious  and  exaggerated,  confining 
itself  rigorously  within  the  bounds  of  art,  as 
Ariosto  confined  himself  within  the  bounds  of 
art,  never  diverging  into  the  clumsy  or  humour- 
'•  istic,  which  is  a  sign  of  weakness :  his  irony  was 
the  irony  of  an  artist,  sure  of  his  own  strength. 
This  perhaps  is  the  reason  or  one  of  the  reasons 
why  Ariosto  did  not  suit  the  taste  of  the  di- 
shevelled Romantics,  who  were  inclined  to  pre- 
fer Rabelais  to  him  and  even  Carlo  Gozzi. 

To  weaken  all  orders  of  sentiment,  to  ren- 
der them  all  equal  in  their  abasement,  to  de- 
prive beings  of  their  autonomy,  to  remove  from 
them  their  own  particular  soul,  amounts  to  con- 
verting the  world  of  spirit  into  the  world  of  na- 
ture: an  unreal  world,  which  has  no  existence 
save  when  we  perform  upon  it  this  act  of  con- 
version, and  in  certain  respects,  the  whole  world 
becomes  nature  for  Ariosto,  a  surface  drawn 
and  coloured,  shining,  but  without  substance. 
Hence  his  seeing  of  objects  in  their  every  de- 
tail, as  a  naturalist  making  minute  observations, 
his  description  that  is  not  satisfied  with  a  single 
trait  which  suffices  as  inspiration  for  other  art- 
ists,  hence  his  lack  of  passionate   impatience 


with  its  inherent  objections  to  certain  material. 
It  may  seem  that  the  figure  of  St.  John  is  drawn 
in  theway  it  is,  as  a  jest: 

Nel  lucente  vestibule  di  quella 
felice  casa  un  Vecchio  al  Duca  occorre, 
Che'l  manto  ha  rosso  e  bianca  la  gonnelk, 
che  Tun  piu  al  latte,  Taltro  al  minio  opporre ; 
i  crini  ha  bianchi  e  bianca  la  mascella 
di  folta  barba  ch'al  petto  discorre.  .  .  .^ 

But  the  beauty  of  Olympia  is  portrayed  in  a  like 
manner,  forgetful  of  the  chastity  of  the  lady, 
which  might  have  seemed  to  ask  a  different  sort 
of  description  or  rather  veiling: 

Le  bellezze  d'  Olimpia  eran  di  quelle 
che  son  piu  rare;  e  non  la  fronte  sola, 
gli  occhi  e  le  guancle,  e  le  chiome  avea  belle, 
la  bocca,  il  naso,  gli  omeri  e  la  gola.  .  .  .- 

Finally,  Medoro  is  described  in  the  same 
way,  Medoro  whose  brave  and  devoted  heart 
and  youthful  heroism  might  seem  to  ask  in  its 

lAn  aged  man  goes  to  encounter  the  Duke  along  the 
bright  vestibule  of  that  fortunate  house:  the  sage  is  clad 
in  red  cloak  and  white  robe,  the  former  white  as  milk,  the 
latter  vermilion,  vivid  as  a  rose.  His  hair  is  white  and  his 
chin  snowy  with  the  thick  beard  flowing  over  his  chest. 

2  01ympia's  loveliness  was  of  rarest  excellence:  not  only 
was  she  fair  of  face  with  forehead,  eyes,  cheeks  glowing 
amidst  the  hair  which  waved  over  her  shoulders:  all  «lse 
was  perfection, 


r 


78 


HARMONY 


HARMONY 


79 


h   I 


{,■ 


III 


turn  a  less  attentive  observation  of  its  fresh 
youthfulness : 

Medoro  avea  la  guancia  colorita, 

e  bianca  e  grata  ne  la  eta  novella.^  .  .  . 

The  very  numerous  similes  between  the  per- 
sonages and  the  situations  in  which  they  find 
themselves  and  the  spectacles  afforded  by  the 
life  of  animals  or  the  phenomena  of  nature, 
also  form  an  almost  prehensible  and  palpable 
part  of  this  conversion  of  the  human  world  into 
the  world  of  nature.  We  shall  not  give  de- . 
tails  of  it,  for  this  has  already  been  done  in 
an  irritatingly  patient  manner  by  a  German 
philologist,  whose  cumbrous  compilation  effec- 
tually precludes  one  from  desiring  to  dwell 
even  for  a  moment  upon  Ariosto's  similes,  com- 
parisons and  metaphors. 

\  This  apparent  naturalism,  this  objectivism,  of 
which  we  have  demonstrated  the  profoundly 

I  subjective  character,  has  led  to  the  erroneous 
statement,  already  met  with,  as  to  Ariosto's 
form  consisting  of  indifference  and  chilly  ob- 
servation,  directed  to  the  external  world.  He 
has  been  coupled  with  his  contemporary  Machi- 
avelli  in  this  respect.  ,  Machiavelli   examined 

1  Medoro's  cheek  showed  white  and  red  in  the  fresh  flour- 
ish of  youth. 


history  and  politics  with  a  sagacious  eye,  de- 
scribing —  as  they  say  —  their  mode  of  proce- 
dure  and  formulating  their  laws,  to  which  he 
gave  expression  in  his  prose  with  analogously 
inexorable    objectivity   and   scientific   coldness. 
It  is  true  that  both  did  in  a  certain  but  m  a 
very  remote  sense,  destroy  a  prior  spiritual  con- 
tent   and    naturalised    in    different    fields    and 
with  different  ends  (Machiavelli  destroyed  the  • 
mediaeval  religious  conception  of  history  and 
politics).     But  this  judgment  of  Machiavelli 
amounts  to  nothing  more  than  a  brilliant  or 
principal  remark,  for  Machiavelli,  as  a  thinker, 
developed  and  explained  facts  with  his  new  vig-  _ 
orous  thought,  and  as  a  writer  gave  an  ap- 
parently cold  form  to  his  severe  passion.     Ari- 
osto's  naturalistic  and  objective  tendency  is  also 
to  be  regarded  as  nothing  more  than  a  meta- 
phor, because  Ariosto  reduced  his  material  to 
nature,  in  order  to  spiritualise  it  in  a  new  way, 
by  creating  spiritual  forms  of  Harmony.         /' 
From  the  opposite  point  of  view  and  arising 
out  of  what  we  have  just  said,  we  must  refram 
from  praising  Ariosto  for  his  "  epicity/'   for 
the  epic  nobility  and  decorum  which  Galilei 
praised  so  much  In  him,  or  for  the  force  and 
coherence  of  his  personages,  so  much  admired 


80 


HARMONY 


HARMONY 


8i 


iV 


by  the  old  as  well  as  by  new  and  even  re- 
cent critics.  How  could  there  be  epicity  in 
the  Furioso,  when  the  author  not  only  lacked 
the  ethical  sentiments  of  the  epos  and  when 
even  that  small  amount,  which  he  might  be 
said  to  have  inherited,  was  dissolved  with 
all  the  rest  in  harmony  and  irony?  And  how 
A^could  there  be  true  and  proper  characters  in 
the  poem,  if  characters  and  personages  in 
art  are  nothing  but  the  notes  of  the  soul  of 
the  poet  themselves,  in  their  diversity  and  op- 
position? These  become  embodied  in  beings 
who  certainly  seem  to  live  their  own  proper 
and  particular  lives,  but  really  live,  all  of  them, 
the  same  life  variously  distributed  and  are 
sparks  of  the  same  central  power.  One  of 
the  worst  of  critical  prejudices  is  to  suppose 
that  characters  live  on  their  own  account  and 
can  almost  continue  living  outside  the  works  of 
art  of  which  they  form  a  part  and  in  which 
they  in  no  wise  differ  nor  can  be  disassociated 
from  the  strophes,  the  verses  and  the  words. 
Since  there  is  no  free  energy  of  passionate  senti- 
ments in  the  Furioso,  we  do  not  find  there  char- 
acters, but  figures,  drawn  and  painted  certainly, 
but  without  relief  or  density,  portrayed  rather 
as  general  or  typical  than  individual  beings. 


The  knights  resemble  and  mingle  with  one  an- 
other, though  differentiated  by  their  goodness 
or  wickedness,  their  greater  polish  or  greater 
rudeness,  or  by  means  of  external  and  acciden- 
tal attributes,  often  by  their  names  alone;  in 
like  manner  the  women  are  either  amorous  or 
perfidious,  virtuous  and  content  with  one  love, 
or  dissolute  and  perverse,  often  distinguished 
merely   by    their    different    adventures   or   the 
names  that  adorn  them.     The  same  is  to  be 
said  of  the  narratives  and  descriptions   (typi- 
cal and  non-individual,  or  but  little  individual, 
is  the  madness  of  Orlando,  to  compare  which 
with  Lear's  is  a  rhetorician's  fancy),  and  of 
natural  objects,   landscapes,   palaces,  gardens, 
and   all   else.     Reserves    have   been    and   can  \ 
with  justice  even  be  made  as  to  the  coherence 
of  the  characters  taken  as  a  whole  and  forming    j 
part  of  a  general  scheme,  for  Ariosto's  person-    . 
ages  take  many  liberties  with  themselves,  ac-    \ 
cording  to  the  course  of  the  events  with  which 
they  find  themselves  connected,  or  rather  ac- 
cording to  the  services  which  the  author  asks 

of  them. 

Such  warnings  as  these  are  indispensable,  be-^ 
cause.  If  some  readers  realise  their  expecta- 
tion of  finding  objectively  described  and  cohe- 


'f  I* 


82 


HARMONY 


HARMONY 


83 


'jl 


i' 


rent  characters  in  Ariosto  and  consequently 
praise  him  for  creating  them,  others  with  like 
expectations  equally  unfounded  are  disap- 
pointed and  consequently  blame  him.  Thus 
for  De  Sanctis  Ariosto's  feminine  characters 
have  seemed  to  be  inferior  to  those  of  Dante, 
of  Shakespeare  and  of  Goethe:  but  this  is  an 
impossible  comparison,  because  Angelica,  Olym- 
pia,  and  Isabella,  although  they  certainly  lack 
the  passionate  intensity  of  Francesca,  Des- 
demona  and  Margaret,  yet  the  latter  for 
their  part  lack  the  harmonious  octaves  in 
which  the  first  trio  lives  and  has  its  being, 
consisting  of  just  these  octaves.  And  what 
IS  more,  neither  trio  suffers  from  the  imper- 
fections, which  are  imperfections  only  in  the 
light  of  imperfect  critical  knowledge  and  con- 
sequent prejudice,  but  not  real  imperfections 
and  poetical  contradictions  in  themselves.  De 
Sanctis  also  blamed  Ariosto  fpr  his  lack  of 
sentiment  for  nature,  as  though  it  were  a 
defect;  but  what  is  called  sentiment  for  na- 
ture (as  for  that  matter  the  great  master  De 
Sanctis  himself  taught)  does  not  depend  upon 
nature,  but  rather  upon  the  attitude  of  the  hu- 
man spirit,  upon  the  feelings  of  comfort,  of 
melancholy  or  of  religious  terror,  with  which 


man   invests    nature    and    finds    them    where 
he  has  placed  them;  but  this  attitude  was  for- 
eign to  the  fundamental  attitude  of  Ariosto, 
and  were  there  to  be  by  chance  some  refer- 
ence to  it  in  the  poem,  were  some  note  of  sen- 
timent  to  sound  there,  we  should  immediately 
be   sensible   of   the   discord   and  impropriety. 
To  Lessing,  another  objective  critic,  the  por- 
trayal of  the  beauties  of  Alcina  seemed  to  be  a 
mistake  and  to  exceed  the  limit  of  poetry,  to 
which  De  Sanctis  replied  that  this  materiahty   ^ 
which  Lessing  blamed  was  the  secret  of  the 
poetry,  because  the  beauty  of  the  magician  Al- 
cina  required  a  material  description,  since  it 
was  fictitious  in  its  nature.     This  blame  was 
unjust,  and  although  the  answer  to  It  was  in- 
genious, yet  it  was  perhaps  not  perfectly  cor- 
rect, for  we  have  already  seen  that  Ariosto  al- 
ways described  thus  both  true  and  imaginary 
beauties,  Olympias  and  Alcinas.     The  true  an-  ^ 
swer  seems  to  be  the  one  already  given,  that  it 
would  be  useless  to  seek  for  features  of  energy 
in  Ariosto,  lively  portraits  dashed  off  in  a  couple 
of  brush  strokes,  for  these  things  presuppose  a 
mode  of  feeling  that  he  lacked  altogether  or, 
at    any    rate    suppressed.     Those    "laughing 
fleeting "  eyes,  which  are  all  Sylvia,  "  le  doux 


84 


HARMONY 


HARMONY 


85 


m' 


sourire  amoureux  et  souffrant,"  which  are  the 
whole  of  the  spiritual  sister-soul  of  the  Maison 
du  Berger,  do  not  belong  to  Ariosto,  but  to  Leo- 
pardi  and  to  De  Vigny. 

There  are  two  ways  in  which  the  Furioso 
should  not  be  read :  the  first  is  the  way  in  which 
one  reads  a  work  of  rhythmic  and  lofty  moral 
inspiration,  like  the  Prom es si  Sposi,  tracing, 
that  is  to  say,  the  development  of  a  serious  hu- 
man affection,  which  circulates  in  and  deter- 
mines every  part  alike,  even  to  the  smallest  de- 
tail; the  second  is  that  suitable  for  such  works 
as  Faust,  where  the  general  composition,  which 
is  more  or  less  guided  by  mental  concepts,  does 
not  at  all  coincide  with  the  poetical  inspiration 
of  the  separate  parts.  Here  the  poetical 
should  be  separated  from  the  unpoetical  parts, 
and  the  poetically  endowed  reader  will  neglect 
the  one  to  enjoy  the  other.  In  the  Furioso, 
this  inequality  of  work  is  absent  or  only  present 
to  a  very  slight  extent  (that  is  to  say,  to  the 
extent  that  imperfection  must  ever  be  present 
in  the  most  perfect  work  of  man)  and  it  is  as 
equally  harmonious  as  the  Promessi  Sposi;  but 
it  lacks  that  particular  form  of  passionate  seri- 
ousness, to  be  found  throughout  Manzoni*s 
work  and  in  stray  passages  of  Goethe's.     The 


Furioso  should  therefore  be  read  in  a  third 
manner,  namely  by  following  a  content  which 
is  ever  the  same,  yet  ever  expressed  in  new 
forms,  whose  attraction  consists  in  the  magic 
of  this  ever-identical  yet  inexhaustible  variety 
of  appearances,  without  paying  attention  to  the 
material  element  of  the  narratives  and  descrip- 

tions. 

As  we  see,  this  too  amounts  to  accepting 
with  a  rectification  a  common  judgment  on  the 
Furioso,  which  may  be  said  to  have  accompa- 
nied the  poem  from  the  moment  of  its  first  ap- 
pearance :  namely,  that  it  is  a  work  devoid  of 
seriousness,  being  of  a  light,  burlesque,  pleas- 
ing and  frivolous  sort.     It  was  described  as 
"  ludicro  more "  by  Cardinal  Sadoleto,  when 
according  the  license  for  printing  the  edition  of 
15 16  in  the  name  of  Leo  X,  although  he  added 
to  this,  perhaps  translating  the  declaration  of 
the  poet  himself,  "  lortgo  tamen  studio  et  cogi- 
tatione,  multisque  vigiliis  confectum."     Bernar- 
do Tasso,  Trissino  and  Speroni,  and  other  such- 
like grave  pedantic  personages,  did  not  fail  to 
blame  Ariosto  for  having  dedicated  his  poem 
to  the  sole  end  of  pleasing.     Boileau  looked 
upon  it  simply  as  a  collection  of  fables_cQm-\ 
i^uesj  and  Sulzer  called  it  a  "  poem  with  the 


'If 


86 


HARMONY 


V. 


sole  end  of  pleasing,  not  directed  by  the  rea- 
son " ;  and  even  to-day  are  to  be  found  its  mer- 
its and  defects  noted  down  to  credit  and  debit 
account  in  many  a  scholastic  manual;  on  the 
credit  side  stand  the  perfection  of  the  octave, 
the  vivacity  of  the  narrative,  the  graceful  style, 
to  the  debit  account  lack  of  profound  sentiment, 
light  which  shines  but  does  not  warm  and  fail- 
ure to  touch  the  heart.  We  accept  and  rectify 
this  judgment  with  the  simple  observation  that 
those  who  regard  the  poem  thus  see  clearly 
enough  everything  that  is  on  a  level  with  their 
own  eyes,  but  do  not  raise  them  to  regard  what 
is  above  their  heads  and  is  the  principal  qual- 
ity of  the  Furioso,  owing  to  which  the  frivolity^ 
of  Ariosto  reveals  itself  as  profound  serious-, 
ness  of  rare  quality,  profound  emotion  of 
the  heart,  but  of  a  noble  and  exquisite  heart, 
equally  remote  from  the  emotions  of  what  is 
generally  looked  upon  as  life  and  reality. 

Apart,  but  not  separated  from,  nor  alien 
to,  nor  indifferent:  and  in  respect  to  this  we 
must  resume  and  develop  the  analysis  already 
begun  by  setting  readers  on  their  guard  against 
the  easy  misunderstanding  of  the  **  destruc- 
tion," which  we  have  already  spoken  of  as 
brought  about  by  the  tone  and  the  irony  of  Ari- 


HARMONY 


87 


osto      This  must  not  be  looked  upon  as  total 
destruction  and  annihilation,  but  as  destruction 
in  the  philosophic  sense  of  the  word,  which  is 
also  conservation.     Were  this  otherwise,  what 
could  be  the  function  of  the  varied  material  or 
emotional  content,  which  we  have  examined  m 
the  poem?     Are  the  stars  stuck  into  the  sky 
like  pin-heads  in  a  pin-cushion  (Don  Ferrante 
would  sarcastically  enquire)  ?     The  eloquence 
of  other's  but  not  Ariosto's  poetry,  arises  from 
a  total  indifference  of  sentiment  and  an  absence 
of  content :  theirs  is  the  rouge  on  the  corpse, 
not  the  rosy  cloud  that  enfolds  and  adorns  the 
living.     Such  eloquence  produces  soft  and  su- 
perficially  musical  versification  of  the  Adone, 
not  the  octave  of  the  Furioso;  and  to  quote  Gir- 
aldi  Cinzio  once  more,  the  lover  of  Ariosto 
(who  gave  the  advice  to  readers  not  to  confuse 
the  "  facility ''  of  the  Furioso  with  verses  **  of 
sweet  sound  but  no  feeling''),  the  eight  hun- 
dred  "  stanzas,"  by  one  of  the  composers  of 
that  time,  which  Giraldl   once   had  to   read, 
**  which  seemed  to  be  collections  made  among 
the  flowery  gardens  of  poetry,   so   full  were 
they   of   beauty   from   stanza   to   stanza,   but 
put  together,  were  vain  things,  seeming,  so  far 
as  sense  Is  concerned,  to  have  been  born  of  the 


y 


88 


HARMONY 


HARMONY 


89 


i 


III 


soil  of  childishness,"  because  their  author  was 
**  intent  only  upon  the  pleasure  that  comes  from 
the  splendour  and  choice  of  words,  and  had 
altogether  neglected  the  dignity  and  assistance 
afforded  by  sensibility." 

Had  Ariosto  while  in  the  act  of  composition 
not  been  keenly  stirred  in  the  various  ways 
described,  by  the  varied  material  employed  in 
his  poem,  he  would  have  lacked  the  impetus, 
the  vivacity,  the  thought,  the  intonation,  which 
were  afterwards  reduced  and  tempered  by  the 
harmonious  disposition  of  his  soul.     He  would 
have  been  a  cold  writer  of  poetry,  and  no  One 
ever  succeeded  in  writing  poetry  coldly.     This 
was  the  case,  as  it  seems  to  me,  with  the  Cinque 
Canti,  which  he  excluded  from  the  Furioso  and 
for  which  he  substituted  others.     In  them  the 
cunning  of  Ariosto's  hand  is  everywhere  to  be 
found  in  the  descriptive  passages  and  transi- 
tions, as  are  also  all  the  elements  of  the  every- 
day world,  stories  of  war,  knightly  adventures, 
tales  of  love    (the  love  of  Penticone  for  the 
wife  of  Otto  and  that  of  Astolfo  for  the  wife 
of  Gismondo),  satirical  tales   (the  foundation 
of  the  city  of  Medea,  with  the  sexual  law  which 
she  imposed  upon  it),  astonishing  fancies  (such 
as  the  knights  imprisoned  in  the  body  of  the 


whale,  where  they  have  their  beds,  their  kitchen 
and  their  tub),  copious  moral  and  political  re- 
flections  (on  jealousy,  ambition,  wicked  men, 
mercenary  soldiers)  ;  yet  we  feel  nevertheless 
that  Ariosto  wrote  them  in  an  unhappy  mo- 
ment, when  Minerva  was  reluctant  or  averse : 
the  poet  did  not  take  sufficient  interest  and 
lacked  the  necessary  heat.     And  is  there  no 
part  of  the  Furioso  itself  that  languishes?     It 
would  seem  so,  not  indeed  in  the  forty  cantos 
of  the  first   edition,   which   originated   in  his 
twelve-year-old  poetical  springtime,  but  in  the 
parts  which  were  added  later,  all  of  them  (as 
could  be  shown)   more  or  less  intellectualistic 
of  origin,  and  therefore  (save  the  episode  of 
Olympia)  not  among  the  most  read  and  most 
popular.     The  most  intellectualistic  of  all  is 
the  long  delay  introduced  toward  the  end  of 
the  poem,  the  double  betrothal  of  Bradamante 
and  the  contest  in  courtesy  between  Leone  and 
Ruggiero,  where  the  tone  becomes  here  and 
there  altogether  pedestrian.     It   is  true  that 
philologists  who  have  given  themselves  to  art 
have  discovered  progress  in  Ariosto   in  just 
these  languid  parts,  and  above  all  in  the  Cinque 
Canti,  where  he  has  lost  his  bearings  and  is  out 
of  tune.     Here  they  suppose  him  to  have  be- 


/ '' 


90 


HARMONY 


HARMONY 


91 


I 


%C  "^ 


i.     %. 


come  "  serious,"  to  join  hands  with  no  less  a 
personage  than  Torquato  Tasso. 

The  process  of  ''  destruction  "  effected  upon 
the  material  may  possibly  be  rendered  clear  to 
those  who  do  not  appreciate  philosophical  for- 
mulas or  find  them  too  difficult,  by  means  of 
the  comparison  with  what  in  the  technique  of 
painting  is  called  "  concealing  a  colour,"  which 
does  not  mean  its  cancellation,  but  its  toning 
down.     In  such  an  equally  distributed  toning 
down,  all  the  sentiments  which  go  to  form  the 
web  of  the  poem,  not  only  preserve  their  own 
physiognomy,  but  their  reciprocal  proportions 
and  connections;  so  that  although  they  certainly 
appear  in  the  ''  transparent  polished  glasses  " 
and  in  the  **  smooth  shining  waters  "  of  the  oc- 
taves, pale  as  "  pearls  on  a  white  forehead  " 
to  the  sight,  yet  they  retain  their  distinctness 
and  are  more  or  less  strong  according  to  the 
greater  or  less  strength  which  they  possessed 
in  the  soul  of  the  poet.     The  comic,  at  once 
lowered  and  raised,  nevertheless  remains  com- 
ical, the  sublime  remains  sublime,  the  voluptu- 
ous voluptuous,  the  reflective  reflective,  and  so 
on.     And  sometimes  it  happens  that  Ariosto 
reaches  the  boundary,  which  if  he  were  to  pass, 
he  would  abandon  his  own  tone,  but  he  never 


does  abandon  It,  because  he  always  refrains 
from  passing  the  boundary.     Everyone  remem- 
bers the  most  emotional  words  and  passages  of 
the  Furioso:  Medoro,  who,  when  surrounded 
and  surprised  by  his  enemies,  makes  a  sort  of 
tower  of  himself,  using  the  trees  as  a  shield, 
and  never  abandoning  the  body  of  his  lord, 
Zerbino,  who  feels  penetrated  with  pity  and 
stays  his  hand  as  he  looks  on  his  beautiful  coun- 
tenance, when  on  the  point  of  slaying  him; 
Zerbino,  who  when  about  to  die,  is  desperate 
at   leaving   his    Isabella    alone,    the    prey   of 
unknown    men,    while    she    bursts    into    tears 
and  speaks   sweet  words  of  eternal  faithful- 
ness; Fiordiligi,  who  hears  the  news,  or  rather 
divines  the  death  of  her  husband  ...  We  al- 
ways   catch    our   breath,    and    something  —  I 
know  not  what  —  comes  into  our  eyes,  as  we 
repeat  these  and  similar  verses.     Here  is  Fi- 
ordiligi, who  shudders  as  she  feels  the  presenti- 
ment : 

E  questa  novita  d'  aver  timore 
le  fa  tremar  di  doppia  tema  il  core.* 

The  fatal  news  comes  to  hand:  Astolfo  and 
Sansonetto,  the  two  friends  who  happen  to 
be  where  she  has  remained,  hide  it  from  her 


92 


HARMONY 


HARMONY 


93 


for  an  hou.  or  so,  and  then  decide  to  betake 
themselves  to  her  that  they  may  prepare  her 
for  the  misfortune  that  has  befallen: 

Tosto  ch'entrano,  e  ch'ella  loro  il  viso 
Vide  di  gaudio  in  tal  vittoria  privo, 
Senz*  altro  annunzio  sa,  senz'  altro  avviso, 
Che  Brandimarte  suo  non  e  piu  vivo.  .  .  .^ 

Another  moment  of  the  same  narrative, 
where  suffering  appears  to  resume  its  strength 
and  to  grow  upon  itself,  is  that  in  which  Or- 
lando, who  is  awaited,  enters  the  temple  where 
the  funeral  of  Brandimarte  is  being  celebrated: 
Orlando,  the  friend,  the  companion,  the  wit- 
ness of  his  death: 

Levossi,  al  ritornar  del  Paladino, 
Maggiore  il  grido  e  raddoppiossi  il  pianto.^ 

Before  such  words  and  images  as  these,  De 
Sanctis  used  to  say  to  his  pupils,  when  explain- 
ing to  them  the  Furioso :  '*  See  how  much  heart 
Ariosto  had!"     ^ut   he    always  kept   telling 

iThe  novel  feeling  of  fear  caused  her  heart  to  tremble, 

doubly  terrified. 

2  As  she  saw  them  enter  without  joyous  exultation  over 
so  great  a  victory,  with  no  announcement  or  any  direct  word 
of  it,  she  was  aware  her  Brandimarte  had  been  slain. 

3  On  the  return  of  the  Paladin,  the  cry  arose  more  loudly 
and  the  wail  redoubled. 


them   this    truth    also:   that    "Ariosto    never 
pushes  situations  to  the  point  of  painfulness," 
forbidden  to  him  by  the  tone  of  his  poetry;  and 
he  used  to  show  them  how  Ariosto  used  some- 
times to  make  use  of  interruptions,  sometimes 
of  graceful  similitudes,  or  reflections,  or  de- 
vices of  style,  in  order  to  restrain  the  painful- 
ness ready  to  break  through.     Those  critics 
who  for  instance  are  shocked  by  the  octaves  on 
the  name  of  "  Isabella  "  are  too  exigent,  or 
ask  too  much,  and  what  they  ought  not  to  ask 
(this  name  of  Isabella  was  destined  by  God  to 
adorn  beautiful,  noble,  courteous,  chaste  and 
wise  women   from  this   time   forth,   and  was 
originally  intended  as  homage  from  Ariosto  to 
the  Marchesana  of  Mantua,  Isabella  of  Este). 
With  these  octaves  he  concludes  the  narrative 
of  the  sacrifice  of  her  life  made  by  Isabella  to 
keep  faith  with  Zerbino;  they  do  not  under- 
stand that  those  octaves  and  the  Proficiscere 
which  precedes  them  ("  Go  thou  in  peace,  thou 
blessed  soul")    and  the  v*ry  account  of  the 
drunken  bestiality  of  Rodomonte,  and  prior  to 
that,  the  semi-comic  scene  of  the  saintly  hermit 
who  presides  over  the  virtue  of  Isabella,  "  like 
a  practised  mariner  and  is  quite  prepared  to 
offer  her  speedily  a  sumptuous  meal  of  spiritual 


¥\ 


94 


HARMONY 


<v 


-J^. 


\ 


I 


food,"  the  hermit  whom  Rodomonte  seizes  by 
the  neck  and  throws  three  miles  into  the  sea,  are 
all  words  and  representations  so  accentuated  as 
to  produce  the  effect  of  allowing  Isabella  to  die 
without  plunging  the  Furioso  into  tragedy  with 
Its  correspondingly  tragical  catharsis;  for  the 
Furioso  has  its  own  general  and  perpetually  har- 
monious catharsis,  which  we  have  now  made 
sufficiently  clear. 

It  is  precisely  owing  to  the  action  of  this 
sentimental  and  passionate  material,  in  spite  of 
and  through  its  effectual  surpassing,  that  the 
varied  colouring  arising  from  it  enters  the  poem 
and  confers  upon  it  that  character  of  humanity, 
which  led  us  to  declare  at  the  outset  of  our  an- 
alysis that  when  we  define  Ariosto  as  the  Poet 
of  Harmony,   we   proposed   only   to   indicate 
where  the  accent  of  his  work  falls,  but  that  he  is 
the  poet  of  Harmony  and  also  of  something 
else,  of  harmony  developed  in  a  particular  world 
of  sentiments,  and  in  fact  that  the  harmony  to 
which  Ariosto  attains,  is  not  harmony  in  gen- 
eral, but  an  altogether  Ariostesque  Harmony. 


CHAPTER  VI 
HISTORICAL  DISASSOCIATIONS 

From  these  last  words,  there  can  be  no  diffi- 
culty in  seeing  what  must  be  our  opinion  as  to 
the  confrontations  and  comparative  judgments 
instituted  between  Ariosto  and  Pulci  or  Boiar- 
do,  and  even  Cieco  da  Ferrara,  and  all  the 
other  Italian  poets  of  chivalry.     These  have 
sometimes  bewi  extended  so  as  to  include  poeti- 
cal  humourists,  such  as  Folengo  and  Rabelais, 
or  burlesque  writers  like  Berni,  Tassoni,  Forte- 
guerri,  or  neoepical  poets,  like  Tasso  and  Ca- 
moens,  and  finally  to  Cervantes,  that  direct  and 
fully  conscious  ironist  of  chivalry.     This  is  as 
perfectly  admissible  as  it  is  natural  that  classes 
of  ''  poems  of  chivalry ''  or  "  narrative  poems  " 
or  **  romances,"  should  be  formed,  when  once 
rhetoricians  and  writers  of  treatises  have  in- 
vented the  genus  and  that  these  should  be  dis- 
posed in   a   series  under  such   headings,  thus 
forming  a  sort  of  artificial  history,  with  no  real 
foundation  beyond  the  accidents  of  certain  ab- 
stract  literary  forms,  which  are  really  repre- 
sentative of  certain  social  tendencies  and  insti- 
tutions.    And  it  is  equally,  indeed  more  admis-  ^ 

95 


Iii§% 


96 


DISASSOCIATIONS 


DISASSOCIATIONS 


97 


i 


'>W  I 


sible,  because  relating  to  more  nearly  connected 
problems,  that  these  documents  afforded  by 
poems  of  chivalry  should  be  made  use  of  among 
other  documents  in  the  investigation  of  the 
gradual  dissolution  of  the  ideal  of  chivalry  in 
the  first  period  of  modern  society.  Salvemini 
has  not  neglected  to  do  this  in  a  temperate  man- 
ner, in  his  monograph  relating  to  **  knightly 
dignity ''  in  the  commune  of  Florence.  But 
the  aesthetic  judgment,  which  they  strive  to  de- 
duce from  these  comparisons,  is  inadmissible 
and  illegitimate :  when  for  instance  they  bestow 
the  palm  on  this  or  that  poet  for  having  better 
observed  than  others  the  **  genus  ''  or  a  par- 
ticular **  species  "  and  **  variety  "  of  the  genus; 
or  because  chivalry  or  anti-chivalry  has  been 
better  represented  by  one  than  by  another. 
We  can  explain  the  fact  that  De  Sanctis  was 
sometimes  entangled  in  this  sociological  net,  in 
spite  of  his  exquisite  sense  of  individuality  and 
poetry,  when  we  consider  the  condition  of 
studies  in  his  time  and  his  philosophical  origins ; 
but  it  is  none  the  less  true  that  the  judgments 
which  he  pronounced  upon  this  matter,  deviate 
from  true  and  proper  aesthetic  criticism,  and 
carry  with  them  the  bad  effects  of  every  devi- 
ation. 


Having  ourselves  refused  to  be  among  those 
whose  feet  are  caught  in  the  insidious  net  of 
Caligorante,  we  shall  have  nothing  further  to 
say  as  to  comparisons  with  Ariosto,  because  the 
poet  of  the  Furioso  has^alwajs^me  out  of 
those  maladroit  confrontations  and  the  arbi- 
trary judgments  of  merit  which  result  from 
them,  crowned  above  all  others  with  the  sign 
of  victory,   or   at   l^ast^unconquered  by  any 
other,   and  admitfingbut'l  very  few  as  his 
equals.     The  preference  accorded  by  romantic 
German  men  of  letters  to  Boiardo   (recently 
revived  to  some  extent  in  Italy  by  Panzini)  be- 
longs rather  to  the  domain  of  anecdote  than  to 
the  history  of  criticism:  Boiardo  is  looked  upon  I 
by  them  as  the  poet  of  grand  heroic  dreams, 
while  Ariosto  is  a  mere  citizen  poet;  or  Boiardo 
again  is  lauded  for  having  better  represented 
the  logical  form  of  the  Italian  poem  of  chiv- 
alry, prescribed  according  to  a  chemical  combi- 
nation drawn  up  in  the  philological  laboratory 
of  the  anti-Ariostesque  Professor  Rajna,  who 
is  in  other  respects  a  most  worthy  and  well- 
deserving  person.     But   there    is   no    denying 
that  the  peculiar  beauty  of  Ariosto  has  often 
injured  Boiardo,  Pulci,  Tasso  and  other  poets, 
who  have  been  illegitimately  compared  with 


>  , 


i 


98 


DISASSOCIATIONS 


DISASSOCIATIONS 


99 


I 


him;  and  therefore,  without  talking  of  Tasso 
—  who  has  now  won  his  case,  although  he 
numbered  a  Galilei  among  the  ranks  of  those 
who  under-estimated  him  when  making  the 
above-mentioned  confrontation, —  it  will  not  be 
inopportune  to  cast  a  rapid  glance  upon  Pulci 
and  Boiardo. 

Looking  at  Pulci  in  Pulci  and  not  at  Ariosto, 
since  to  place  one  physiognomy  on  the  top  of 
another  is  not  a  good  way  of  seeing,  what  do 
we  find?  What  is  the  M  org  ante?  It  is  above 
all  a  whimsicality,  one  of  those  works,  born  of 
a  caprice  or  a  bet,  to  which  the  author 
neither  devotes  himself  after  the  necessary 
previous  meditations,  nor  works  at  with  the 
scrupulosity  of  the  artist,  who  expends  his 
powers  and  employs  his  utmost  endeavour  to 
do  the  best  he  can  everywhere.  But  the  occa- 
sion or  the  inspiration  is  never  the  substance 
of  a  work,  which  on  the  contrary  always  con- 
sists of  what  the  author  really  brings  to  it  in 
the  course  of  his  labour;  and  the  mention  of 
the  occasional  origin  of  the  Morgante  only 
avails  here  to  account  for  its  ill-digested  and 
undoubtedly  chaotic  nature.  Nor  is  it  to  the 
purpose  to  recall  what  certainly  seems  to  have 
been  Pulci's  intention,  namely,  to  satisfy  in  his 


own  way  a  wish  of  the  pious  Lucrezia  Torna- 
buoni,  by  composing  or  re-writing  a  Christian 
poem  of  chivalry,  for  this  in  its  turn  only  ex- 
plains certain  superficialities  and  extrinsicalities, 
such  as  the  general  plan  of  the  poem  and  the  1 
parts  of  it  possessing  religious  tone,  which  are 
successful  to  the  extent  that  they  could  be  suc- 
cessful with  such  a  brain  as  Pulci's.     A  com- 
mencement will   have   been   made   towards   a 
proper  understanding  of  the  substance  of  the 
Morgante,  its  proper  and  intrinsic  inspiration, 
by  referring  it  first  to  the  curiosity  with  which 
educated  Florentine  citizens  observed  and  re- 
produced the  customs  and  the  psychology  of  the 
people  of  the  city  and  the  surrounding  districts, 
productive  of  the  poetry  of  Politian,  of  Lor- 
enzo and  of  Pulci  himself,  author  of  the  Beca 
di  Dicomano,  each  with  its  various  popular  ap- 
peal.    That    inspiration    contains    something 
both  of  the  sympathetic  and  of  the  ironical,  as 
we  observe  in  all  poetry  based  upon  popular 
themes  and  use  of  dialect,  in  the  German  roman- 
tic Lieder  and  Balladen  and  in  the  dialect  litera- 
ture of  the  Italy  of  to-day  (one  feels  inclined 
to  call  the  Morgante  ''  dialect ''  and  not ''  Ital- 
ian"):  and  in  Pulci  there  vibrated  a  sympa- 
thetic-ironic   chord,    peculiar   to    himself    and 


lOO 


DISASSOCIATIONS 


;      It 


f      .    *■     { 


therefore  naturally  not  exactly  the  same  as  in 
Lorenzo,  or  still  less  in  Politian.  But  it  did  not 
vibrate  pure  and  clear,  being  prevented  from 
doing  so,  not  so  much  owing  to  initial  eccentric- 
ity and  to  the  intention  above-mentioned,  as  to 
the  accumulation  of  other  inspirations,  arising 
in  the  fertile  spirit  of  Pulci.  For  Pulci  had  in 
mind,  in  addition  to  the  reconstruction  of  a 
sympathetic-ironic  popular  poem  of  the  popular 
story-tellers,  something  that  might  be  called  a 
"  Picaresque  romance,''  understanding  thereby 
not  only  tales  of  the  sort  to  be  found  in  Spanish 
literature,  but  also  certain  other  tales  of  Boc- 
caccio and  a  great  part  of  Folengo's  Baldus. 
Picaresque  romance  asked  in  its  turn  sympathy 
and  irony,  but  of  a  different  sort  to  the  preced- 
ing, no  longer  sympathy  for  popular  ingenuity, 
but  for  cleverness,  trickiness,  for  an  irony, 
which  should  no  longer  be  simply  that  of  supe- 
rior culture,  but  also  of  superior  morality;  and 
this  too  was  in  some  measure  and  in  his  own 
way  in  Pulci;  but  he  often  spoilt  this  disposi- 
tion of  mind  by  inadvertently  passing,  like  a 
person  lacking  refinement  of  education,  from 
Picaresque  romance  to  Picaresque  intonation, 
from  the  representation  of  a  blackguard  to  the 
blackguard  himself.     And  there  is  something 


DISASSOCIATIONS  loi 

else  also  in  the  Morgante :  the  imaginings  and 
caprices   of   Pulci   himself,   his   own  personal 
moral    opinions,     religious    or    philosophical; 
things  that  are  sometimes  thought  about  even  by 
those  who  do  not  think  much  about  them,  and 
which,  owing  to  this  casual  hasty  thinking,  be- 
come   nevertheless   opinions   or  seml-opinions. 
Finally  the  Morgante  is  a  skein  formed  of 
strands  of  different  colour  and  make,  some  of 
them  thicker  or  thinner  than  others:  It  is  a 
poem  that  is  not  in  tune  with  a  single  dominant 
inspiration,  and  if  we  take  one  of  those  ele- 
ments that  we  have  described  and  transport  it 
to  the  principal  place,  we  immediately  have  the 
feeling  that  we  are  depriving  the  complex  na- 
ture of  the  work  of  its  vigour.     Nevertheless 
the  Morgante  must  be  looked  upon  as  one  of 
the  most  richly  endowed  works  of  our  litera- 
ture, where  we  meet  at  every  step  with  dehght- 
ful  figures  and  traits  of  expression:  Morgante, 
Margutte,    Fiorinetta,    Astarotte,    Farfarello, 
Archbishop  Turpin,  certain  touches  of  charac- 
ter  in  Orlando,  and  especially  in  Rinaldo,  and 
also  in  Antea,  together  with  certain  descrip- 
tions,   anecdotes    and    acute    remarks.     Mar- 
gutte,  plunged  deep  in  vice,  but  quite  shameless 
and  aware  that  he  cannot  be  other  than  what 


)   , 


!(!« 


1 1    mu 


102 


DISASSOCIATIONS 


nature  made  him,  is  also  human,  incapable  of 
treachery,  capable  of  affection  for  Morgante 
and  of  enduring  his  all-consuming  voracity;  so 
that  when  his  companion  dies,  he  never  ceases 
recalling  him  to  mind,  and  talking  about  him 
even  with  Orlando  : 

E  conta  d'ogni  sua  piacevolezza, 
E  lacrimava  ancor  di  tenerezza.* 

Rinaldo,  ardent  and  furious  for  revenge,  seeks 
to  slay  Carlo  Magno,  who  has  been  hidden 
from  him;  but  after  a  few  days  Orlando  leads 
him  to  believe  that  the  Emperor  has  died  of 
desperation,  and  tells  him  that  he  has  appeared 
to  him  in  vision,  whereupon  Rinaldo  changes 
countenance  and  begins  to  wish  him  alive  again, 
to  feel  pity  for  him,  to  repent  him  of  his  fury, 
so  that  in  this  way  peace  and  reconciliation  are 
effected.     After  a  great  battle,  the  conquered 
as  they  leave  the  field,   recognise  their  dead 
ones  where  they  lie,  and  we  hear  them  lament- 
ing a  father,  a  brother  or  a  friend : 

Eravi  alcun  che  cavava  relmetto 

al  suo  figliolo,  al  suo  cognato,  o  padre; 

poi  lo  baciava  con  pietoso  affetto, 

E  dicea:     "Lasso,  fra  le  nostre  squadre 

1  Saying   how   delightful   he   was   and   still   weeping  for 
tender   recollection. 


DISASSOCIATIONS  103 

non  tornerai  in   Soria  piu,  poveretto; 
che  diren  noi  alia  tua  afflitta  madre, 
o  chi  sara  piu  quel  che  la  conforti? 
Tu  ti  riman  cogli  altri  al  campo  morti."  ^ 

And  this  IS  an  apology,  by  means  of  which 
Orlando  explains  to  Rinaldo  that  he  has  re- 
marked his  new  affection,  and  that  it  is  of  no 
use  that  he  should  try  to  deceive  him  with 
words :  , 

Rispose  Orlando:  — Noi  sarem  que'  frati 

che  mangiando  il  migliaccio,  Tun  si  cosse; 

I'altro  gli  vede  gli  occhi  imbambolati, 

e  domando  quel  che  la  cagion  fosse. 

Colui  rispose:     "  Noi  sian  due  restati 

a  mensa,  e  gli  altri  sono  or  per  le  fosse, 

che  trentatre  fummo  e  tu  lo  sia: 

Quand'  io  vi  penso,  io  piango  sempre  mai." 

Queir  altro,  che  vedea  che  lo  'ngannava, 

finse  di  pianger,  mostrando  dolore; 

e  disse  a  quel  che  di  cio  domandava: 

"  E  anco  io  piango,  anzi  mi  scoppia  il  core, 

che  noi  sian  due  restati " ;  e  sospirava, 

"  Ed  e  gia  I'uno  all'  altro  traditore." 

1  Sometimes  one  would  remove  the  helmet  from  his  son. 
his  cousin,  or  his  father,  kissing  him  with  pious  affection, 
and  saying  "  alas,  poor  fellow,  never  again  will  he  return  to 
our  ranks  in  Soria;  what  shall  we  say  to  his  afflicted  mother 
who  among  us  can  comfort  her?  But  thou  remainest  with 
the  others  who  lie  dead  on  the  field." 


>    . 


I04  DISASSOCIATIONS 

Cosi  mi  par  che  faccian  noi,  Rinaldo: 
che  nol  di  tu  che'l  migliaccio  era  caldo?  '* 

And  here  is  an  octave  in  which  Pulci  makes 
it  psychologically  clear  why  King  Carlo  allowed 
himself  to  be  led  astray  and  deceived  by  Gano: 

Molte  volte,  anzi  spesso,  c'interviene 
che  tu  t'arrecchi  un  amico  e  fratello, 
e  cio  che  fa  ti  par  che  facci  bene, 
dipinto  e  colorito  col  pennallo. 
Questo  primo  legame  tanto  tienc, 
che,  s'  aitra  volta  ti  dispiace  quello, 
e  qualcha  cosa  ti  para  molesta, 
sempre  la  prima  impression  pur  resta.^ 

1  Orlando  answered:  —  We  shall  be  like  the  friars  one 
of  whom  burnt  himself  in  eating  his  gruel;  the  other  see- 
ing his  eyes  watering  asked  the  reason.  His  neighbour  re- 
plied: "Here  we  are,  two  of  us  remained  sitting  at  table, 
while  the  others  are  in  the  tomb;  well  thou  knowest  that  we 
were  thirty-three;  it  always  makes  me  weep  to  think  of  it." 
The  other,  who  saw  the  deception,  in  his  turn  made  be- 
lief to  lament  and  grieve  and  when  asked  the  reason: 
"Yea,  I  also  weep;  my  heart  indeed  is  bursting  to  think 
that  we  two  remain  " ;  then  sighing  he  continued,  "  And  that 
one  of  us  two  is  betraying  the  other.  We  seem  to  be  doing 
much  the  same  thing,  Rinaldo:  why  won't  you  confess  that 
the  gruel  was  hot?" 

2  It  often  happens  that  a  friend  becomes  like  a  brother 
to  you,  and  whatever  he  does  seems  to  be  so  well  done  as 
to  deserve  being  made  a  picture.  This  first  bond  holds  so 
firmly  that  when  he  finally  does  something  you  do  not  like 
—  injures  you  in  some  way  —  nevertheless  the  first  impression 
remains  the  same. 


DISASSOCIATIONS 


105 


"  These  are  not  the  octaves  of  Ariosto  " :  we 
have  said  as  much.  Certainly  they  are  not, 
just  as  the  octaves  of  Ariosto  are  not  those 
of  Pulci,  and  Ariosto,  whatever  trouble  he 
might  have  taken,  could  never  have  attained 
to  the  inventions,  the  emotions,  the  clevernesses 
and  the  accents  of  the  Morgante,  which  are 
just  as  inimitable  in  their  way  as  are  the  graces 
of  the  Furioso.  And  it  is  really  unjust  and  al- 
most odious  that  the  reader,  face  to  face  with 
the  treasures  of  fresh  and  original  poetry, 
which  Pulci  throws  without  counting  into  his 
lap,  should  pull  a  wry  face  and  ungratefully  re- 
mark that  Pulci's  poetry  is  not  that  other  poetry 
which  he  is  now  thinking  about,  and  that  it 
should  be  abolished,  or  made  perfect  by  the 
other  poetry ! 

Almost  the  same  thing  Is  to  be  repeated 
about  the  author  of  the  Innamorato,  who  has 
also  been  tormented,  condemned  and  executed 
by  means  of  a  comparison  with  the  author 
of  the  Furioso,  sometimes  conducted  with  such 
a  refinement  of  cruelty  that  the  strophes  of 
the  one  are  printed  facing  the  strophes  of 
the  other,  and  selected  as  bearing  upon  sim- 
ilar situations,  so  that  every  word  and  sylla- 
ble may  be  weighed;  as  though  the  strophes 


)  •, 


io6 


DISASSOCIATIONS 


of  a  poet  are  not  to  be  considered  solely  in 
themselves  and  in  the  poem  of  which  they 
form  part,  and  to  be  condemned,  if  occasion 
arise  for  condemnation,  within  that  circle  to 
which  are  confined  the  real  conditions  of  judg- 
ment. Boiardo,  to  one  who  reads  him  with- 
out any  sort  of  preconception  and  abandons 
himself  to  the  simple  impressions  of  reading, 
immediately  shows  himself  to  be  altogether 
different  from  what  some  critics  maintain,  the 
pedantic  singer  of  chivalry  taken  seriously,  who 
gives  way  now  and  then  to  involuntary  laugh- 
ter and  to  a  harsh  intonation  which  should  be 
toned  down  and  softened  by  the  skill  of  an  Ar- 
iosto.  He  is  quite  other  also  than  the  epic 
bard,  which  some  people  have  imagined  him  to 
be;  he  could  not  be  epic,  because  he  had  no 
national  sentiment,  no  feeling  for  class  or  reli- 
gion, and  the  marvellous  in  him  is  all  fancy,  a 
marvel  of  the  fairies ;  nor  was  he  a  pedant,  for 
he  obviously  follows  his  own  spontaneous  in- 
clinations, without  any  secondary  purpose.  No, 
Boiardo  was  on  the  contrary  a  soul  passionately 
devoted  to  the  primitive  and  the  energetic,  his 
was  the  energy  of  the  lance-thrust,  of  the  brand 
wielded,  but  also  the  energy  of  a  proud  will,  of 
ferocious  courage,  of  intransigent  honour,  of 


DISASSOCIATIONS 


107 


marvellous  devices.     And  it  is  owing  just  to 
this  energy,  which  has  a  value  of  its  own,  that 
he  lives  to  unite  poetically  the  cycles  of  Charle- 
magne and  of  Arthur,  the  Carlovingian  and  the 
Breton   traditions,    arms   and   adventures   and 
love,  both  of  them  primitive  cycles,  the  second 
being  remarkable  for  the  extraordinary  nature 
of  its  adventures  and  the  violence  of  its  loves; 
whereas,  if  that  heroism  had  continued  to  be 
full  and  substantial,  it  would  have  been  diffir 
cult  to  make  it  a  theme  for  erotic  treatment, 
representing  a  different  and  opposed  sentiment. 
To  ask  of  him  delicacy  of  treatment  in  the  rep- 
resentation   of    his    knights,    or    delicacy    of 
thoughts  and  words  in  his  treatment  of  women 
and  love,  and  in  general,  beauty  of  sentiment, 
is  to  ask  of  him  what  is  external  to  his  funda- 
mental   motive.     To    be    astonished    that   he 
sometimes  laughs  or  smiles,  is  to  be  astonished 
at  what  happens  every  day  among  the  people 
(and  there  are  traces  of  it  in  the  ingenuous 
epic)  when  they  are  listening  to  the  recital  of 
great  deeds,  which  do  not  forbid  an  occasional 
comic  remark.     To  lament  his  supposed  neg- 
lect of  art,  his  lack  of  polish  of  language  and 
versification,    is    to    censure   him    as    a   gram- 
marian   who    employs   pre-established   models 


io8 


DISASSOCIATIONS 


or  dwells  upon  minute  details  to  which  he  at- 
tributes sovereign  importance.  How  on  the 
other  hand  can  it  be  forgotten,  when  praise  of 
his  rich  fancy  and  robust  frankness  of  style  and 
composition  is  opposed  to  censures  or  inter- 
larded among  them,  that  we  must  explain 
whence  came  to  him  these  merits,  for  they  are 
not  to  be  snatched,  but  are  born  only  of  the 
soul.  Whence  came  they,  if  not  from  true  po- 
etical inspiration  and  from  his  already  men- 
tioned passion  for  the  energetic  and  the  primi- 
tive? Hence  the  admiration  aroused  by  his 
vast  canvases,  his  vivid  narratives:  —  Angeli- 
ca, who  by  merely  appearing  at  Carlo's  ban- 
quet, makes  everyone  fall  in  love  with  her,  and 
whom  even  the  Emperor  himself  cannot  refrain 
from  admiring,  though  with  discretion,  lest  he 
should  compromise  his  gravity,  Angelica, 
whom  the  greatest  champions  of  Christianity 
and  Paganism  follow  with  admiration,  refusing 
herself  to  all  and  loving  only  him  who  alone 
abhors  her;  —  the  solemn  council  of  war,  held 
by  Agramante  previous  to  entering  France,  with 
the  speeches  of  the  kings  who  surround  him, 
courageous  or  prudent,  the  sudden  appearance 
of  the  youthful  Rodomonte,  who  dominates  all 
with  his  tremendous  energy;  —  the  joyful  cour- 


DISASSOCIATIONS 


109 


age  of  Astolfo,  never  disconcerted  by  headlong 
mishaps,  whom  fortune  succours  by  furnishing 
him  with  a  lance,  by  means  of  which,  to  the  as- 
tonishment of  all,  he  accomplishes  prodigies, 
while  he  himself  remains  unastonished;  —  Bru- 
nello,   as  to  whose  doings  one  would  like  to 
apply  Vico's  phrase  about  "  heroic  thieving," 
Brunello,  who  wanders  about  the  earth,  steal- 
ing the  most  carefully  guarded  objects,  with  an 
audacious  dexterity  and  so  comic  an  imagina- 
tion, Brunello,  revelling  in  his  joyous  virtuos- 
ity and  vainly  pursued  over  the  whole  world  by 
Marfisa  of  the  viper's  eye,  which  spirts  venom, 
Marfisa  who  wishes  to  put  him  to  death;  but 
he  flies  from  her,  turning  from  time  to  time 
in  his  flight  to  laugh  in  her  face  and  make  ges- 
tures of  mockery;  —  Then  again  there  are  the 
colloquies  of  Orlando  and  Agricane,  during  the 
pauses  in  their  bitter  duel,  which  must  end  in 
the  death  of  one  of  them;  Rinaldo's  caustic  re- 
ply to  Orlando,  who  has  reproved  him  for  wish- 
ing to  carry  away  the  golden  couch  from  the 
fairy's  garden;  and  that  other  no  less  caustic  re- 
partee of  the  courageous  highway  robber  to 
Brandimarte;  and  many  and  many  another  most 
beautiful  passage?  —  Yet  the  Innamorato,  not- 
withstanding its  poetical  abundance,  has  never 


no 


DISASSOCIATIONS 


been  numbered  among  really'classical  works,  so 
that  after  the  vogue  which  for  ephemeral  rea- 
sons it  enjoyed  in  its  own  day,  it  has  not  received 
and  does  not  receive  the  affection  and  homage 
of  any  but  those  who  love  what  is  little  loved 
and  prize  what  is  pure,  spontaneous  and  rude. 
The  poem  does  not  conclude  in  itself;  it  is  not 
satisfied  with  itself:  there  is  a  break  somewhere 
in  the  circle :  the  representation  of  the  energetic 
and  primitive,  which  is  a  sort  of  formal  epicity, 
has  something  in  it  of  the  monotonous  and  arid, 
and  the  pleasure  derived  from  it  has  something 
of  the  solitary  and  sterile.  Like  the  charger 
that  sniffs  the  battle,  so  says  Boiardo : 

Ad  ogni  atto  degno  e  signorile, 
Qual  se  raconti  di  cavalleria, 
sempre  se  allegra  I'animo  gentile, 
come  nel  fatto  fusse  tuttavia, 
manifestando  fuore  il  cor  virile.  .  .  .* 

That  is  well,  but  the  manly  heart  is  not  slow 
to  express  a  certain  feeling  of  delusion,  when 
it  recognises  that  the  images  in  question  are  all 
body,  without  depth  of  soul,  and  without  the 
guidance  and  inspiration  of  a  superior  spirit. 
He  says  somewhere  else: 

^  The  gentle  soul  rejoices  at  every  worthy,  noble  deed 
recounted  of  knighthood,  as  it  does  when  the  deed  was  ac- 
complished, which  revealed  the  manly  heart. 


DISASSOCIATIONS  in 

Gia  molto  tempo  m'han  tenuto  a  bada 
Morgana,  Alcina  e  le  incantazioni, 
Ne  ve  ho  mostrato  un  bel  colpo  di  spada, 
E  pieno  il  eel  de  lancie  e  de  tronconi.  .  .  ^ 

But  there  are  too  many  lances  that  meet  and 
clash,  too  many  limbs  flying  about  without  our 
ever  seeing  the  cause,  the  meaning  or  the  justi- 
fication of  all  that  fighting  —  even  Boiardo 
himself  becomes  melancholy,  when  he  thinks  of 
those  blows  exchanged  in  a  spiritual  void,  ex- 
claiming in  one  of  those  frequent  purely  spon- 
taneous epigrams,  which  invest  his  noble  per- 
son with  sympathy : 

Fama,  seguace  degli  imperatori, 
Ninfa,  che  e'  gesti  a'  dolci  versi  canti, 
che  dopo  morte  ancor  gli  uomini  onori, 
e  fai  coloro  eterni,  che  tu  vanti, 
ove  sei  giunta?  a  dir  gli  antichi  amori, 
e  a  narrar  battaglie  de'  giganti; 
merce  del  mondo,  che  al  tuo  tempo  e  tale, 
che  pill  di  fama  o  di  virtu  non  cale. 
Lascia  a  Parnaso  quella  verde  pianta, 
che  da  salvivi  ormai  perso  e  il  cammino, 
e  meco  al  basso  questa  istoria  canta 
del  re  Agramante,  il  forte  Saracino.  .  .  .* 

^  Morgana,  Alcina  and  their  incantations  have  long  held 
me  in  their  chains,  so  that  I  have  been  unable  to  show  you 
aught  of  fine  sword  play,  the  sky  full  of  lances  and 
limbs.  ... 

2  Where  art  thou  gone,  O  fame  that  followest  emperors 
and  singest  their  brave  deeds  in  gentle  verse,  thou  that  hon- 


¥ 


112 


DISASSOCIATIONS 


/--  Pulci    and    Boiardo    then,    not    to    mention 

others,  are  to  be  placed  neither  above  nor  be- 

I  low  Ariosto,  for  they  are  not  even  related  to 

i. 

I  him.  Proof  of  this  is  to  be  found  in  the  fact 
that  thought  has  gone  to  other  artists,  to  Ovid 
for  example,  in  the  search  for  his  parallel  in 
literature  among  the  Latins,  to  Petrarch  and 
to  Politian  among  Italians,  or  to  architects  like 
Bramante  and  Leon  Baptista  Alberti,  and  yet 
more  to  painters,  like  Raphael,  Correggio  and 
Titian,  comparisons  having  been  instituted  with 
all  of  these  and  with  others  whom  it  is  unneces- 
sary to  mention.  Now  as  regards  quality  of 
artistic  inspiration,  affinity  is  certainly  more  in- 
trinsic than  are  relations  established  from  the 
use  of  similar  abstract  material;  yet  it  is  itself 
abstract  and  extrinsic,  because  it  always  accepts 
one  or  certain  aspects  of  inspiration,  not  the 
full  inspiration.  Thus,  for  example,  when  a 
comparison  is  drawn  between  Ariosto  and 
Ovid,  who  was  a  story-teller,  lacking  altogether 

orest  men  after  death  and  conferrest  eternity  upon  those  thou 
vauntest?  This  is  the  fault  of  the  world.  Thou  art  gone  to 
sing  of  ancient  loves  and  to  tell  of  the  battles  of  the  giants, 
thanks  to  this  world  of  ours  that  cares  no  longer  for  courage 
or  for  fame.  Leave  upon  Parnassus  that  growth  of  green, 
since  none  knows  now  the  upward  path  that  leadeth  thither, 
and  sing  here  below  with  me  this  history  of  King  Agramante, 
the  mighty  Saracen.  .  .  . 


DISASSOCIATIONS 


113 


in  religious  feeling  for  my;mologicaI  fables  and  \ 
attracted  to  them  solely  by  their  beauty  and 
variety,  we  must  immediately  hasten  to  add 
that  with  the  exception  of  this  side,  which  they 
share  in  common,  Ariosto  is  different  and  su- 
perior to  the  Latin  poet  in  every  other,  for 
Ovid  had  not  a  delicate  taste  in  art,  being 
merged  altogether  in  his  pleasing  and  delight- 
ful themes.  He  improvised  and  overflowed, 
owing  to  his  incapacity  for  firm  design  and  lack 
of  control :  he  would  be  better  described  as  the 
model  of  the  luxurious  Italian  versifiers  of  the 
seventeenth  century  than  as  the  model  of  Ari- 
osto, whose  art  was  most  chaste.  If  again  he 
be  superficially  compared  with  Politian,  the 
comparison  breaks  up  immediately,  because  the 
Stanze  are  inspired  by  the  voluptuousness  of  the 
sensible  world,  contemplated  in  all  its  fugitive 
brilliance  and  with  that  trembling  accompani- 
ment of  anxiety  and  suffering,  inseparable  from 
it,  while  Ariosto  soars  above  the  pathos  of  vol- 
uptuousness. To  note  affinities  is  of  avail  in 
a  work  introductory  to  the  general  study  of  lit- 
erature, and  to  draw  comparisons  and  point  out 
contrasts  and  successive  approximations  may 
also  serve  as  a  useful  aid  to  the  accurate  de- 
scription of  an  artist's  special  character.     But 


114 


DISASSOCIATIONS 


I 


we  do  not  propose  to  supply  here  such  a  di- 
dactic introduction,  for  the  use  of  such  a 
method  is  superfluous,  as  we  have  already  de- 
scribed Ariosto's  characteristics  in  the  man- 
ner proposed.  We  shall  not  therefore  form  a 
group  of  artists,  as  related  to  him  in  this  or 
that  respect,  for  such  cannot  be  expected  of 
us,  nor  has  it  for  us  any  special  attraction. 

Observations  as  to  aflinities  have  another  use 
also,   as  providing  a  basis   for  sparkling  and 
resonant  metaphors,  as  when  it  is  observed  of 
an  artist  that  he  is  the  **  Raphael  of  poetry,''  of 
another  that  he  is  **  the  Dante  of  sculpture,'' 
or  of  a  third  that  he  is  *'  the  Michael  Angelo 
of  sound,"  or  as  was  said  (by  Torquato  Tasso, 
perhaps  as  a  witticism,  and  certainly  with  little 
truth),   that  Ariosto  is   "the   Ferrarese  Ho- 
mer."    We    already   possess   many   pages    of 
magnificent  metaphors  to  the  honour  and  glory 
of  the  author  of  the  Furioso,  nor  do  we  intend 
to    depreciate    their    merit;    but    the    present 
writer  begs  to  be  excused  from  the  labour  of 
increasing  their  number,  since  he  is  in  general 
little  disposed  to  oratory  and  has  allowed  what 
slight  gift  of  the  sort  he  might  have  possessed 
to  flow  away  and  lose  itself,  while  conversing 
with  so  unrhetorical  and  so  conversational  a 
poet  as  was  Ludovico  Ariosto. 


PART  II 
WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


I 


li 


1        »■ 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  PRACTICAL  PERSONALITY  AND 
THE  POETICAL  PERSONALITY 

To  state  at  the  outset,  that  the  practical 
personality  of  Shakespeare  is  not  the  object  of 
study  for  the  critic  and  historian  of  art,  but 
his  poetical  personality;  not  the  character  and 
development  of  his  life,  but  the  character  and 
development  of  his  art,  will  perhaps  seem  to  be 
superfluous,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  will  aid 
us  in  proceeding  more  rapidly. 

We  do  not  aim  at  forbidding  the  natural 
curiosity,  which  leads  to  the  enquiry  as  to  what 
sort  of  men  in  practical  life  were  those  whom 
we  admire  as  poets,  thinkers  and  scientists. 
This  curiosity  often  leads  to  delusion,  because 
there  is  nothirlg  to  be  found  behind  the  poet, 
the  philosopher,  or  the  man  of  science,  which  can 
arouse  interest,  though  it  is  sometimes  fruitful. 
It  would  certainly  be  agreeable  to  raise  that 
sort  of  mysterious  veil  that  surrounds  Shake- 
speare.    We  should  like  to  know  what  sort  of 

117 


ii8        TWO   PERSONALITIES 

passions,  what  ethical,  philosophical  and  mental 
experiences  were  his,  and  above  all  what  he 
thought  about  himself  —  whether,  as  appeared 
to  ttose  who  rediscovered  him  a  century  or  so 
later,  he  were  really  without  feeling  the  great- 
ness of  his  genius  and  of  his  own  work.  For 
what  reason,  too,  if  there  were  a  special  rea- 
son, did  he  not  take  the  trouble  to  have  his 
plays  printed,  but  exposed  them  to  the  risk  of 
being  lost  to  posterity?  Was  it  due  to  the 
ingenuousness  and  innocence  of  the  poet,  or  to 
proud  indifference  on  the  part  of  a  man,  who 
disdains  the  world's  applause  and  the  mirage 
of  glory,  because  he  is  completely  satisfied  with 
the  greatness  of  his  work?  Or  was  it  due  to 
simple  indolence,  or  to  a  settled  plan,  or  to  the 
web  of  events?  Did  he  suppose,  as  has  been 
suggested,  that  those  plays,  written  for  the 
theatre,  would  have  continued  ever  to  live  in 
the  theatre,  under  the  care  of  his  companions 
in  art,  in  accordance  with  his  intentions  and  in 
a  manner  suitable  to  their  merit?  But  it  is 
clear  that  these  and  such  like  questions  concern 
the  biography,  rather  than  the  artistic  history 
of  Shakespeare,  which  gives  rise  to  an  alto- 
gether different  series  of  researches. 

We  do  not  however  wish  to  assert  that  these 


.     TWO   PERSONALITIES        119 

two  series  of  different  questions  are  without 
relation:  even  different  things  have  some  rela- 
tion to  one  another,  which  resides  in  their 
diversity  itself  and  is  connected  above  them. 
The  critic  and  historian  of  art  would  certainly 
find  it  advantageous  for  the  studies  that  he 
was  about  to  undertake,  to  know  the  chron- 
ology, the  circumstances,  the  details,  the  com- 
positions, the  recompositions,  the  recastings 
and  the  collaborations  of  the  Shakespearean 
drama.  He  would  thus  avoid  the  obligation  of 
vexing  his  mind  as  to  certain  interpretations, 
and  of  remaining  more  or  less  perplexed  for  a 
greater  or  lesser  space  of  time,  before  certain 
peculiarities,  discordances  and  inequalities, 
doubtful,  that  is  to  say,  as  to  whether  they  be 
errors  in  art,  or  art  forms  of  which  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  seize  the  hidden  connection.  But  he 
would  gain  nothing  more  from  this  advantage 
(with  the  conjoined  admonition,  to  beware  of 
the  prejudices  that  such  information  is  apt  to 
cause).  His  judgment  would  of  necessity  be 
founded,  in  final  analysis,  upon  intrinsic  reasons 
of  an  artistic  nature,  arising  from  an  examina- 
tion of  the  works  before  him.  The  chronology 
that  he  will  succeed  in  fixing,  will  not  be  a  real 
or  material  chronology,  but  an  ideal  and  an 


i 


m 


f 


I20        TWO   PERSONALITIES 

aesthetic  one,  for  these  are  two  forms  of  chron- 
ology which  only  coincide  approximately  and 
sometimes  altogether  diverge  from  one  an- 
other. Were  the  authenticity  of  the  works  all 
clearly  settled,  the  critic  would  be  preserved 
from  proclaiming  that  certain  works  or  parts 
of  works  are  Shakespeare's,  when  they  are 
really,  say,  Greene's  or  Marlowe's,  which  is  an 
inexactitude  of  nomenclature,  as  also  is  the 
treating  of  Shakespeare's  work  as  being  by 
someone  else  or  anonymous.  But  this  onomas- 
tic  inexactitude  is  already  corrected  by  the  pre- 
sumption that  the  critic  has  his  eye  fixed,  not 
on  the  biographical  and  practical  personage  of 
Shakespeare,  but  on  the  poetical  personage. 
He  is  thus  able  to  face  with  calmness  the  danger, 
which  is  not  a  danger  and  is  extremely  improb- 
able, of  allowing  to  pass  under  the  colours  of 
Shakespeare  a  work  drawn  from  the  same  or  a 
similar  source  of  inspiration,  which  stands  at 
an  equal  altitude  with  others,  or  of  adding  an- 
other work  to  those  of  inferior  quality  and 
declining  value  assigned  to  the  same  name,  be- 
cause he  is  differentiating  aesthetic  values  and 
not  title-deeds  to  legal  property. 

As  we  have  said,  it  has  not  seemed  super- 
fluous to  repeat  these  statements,  because  in 


TWO   PERSONALITIES 


121 


the  first  place,  the  silent  and  tenacious,  though 
erroneous  conviction,  as  to  the  unity  and  iden- 
tity of  the  two  histories,  the  practical  and  the 
poetical,  or  at  least  the  obscurity  as  to  their 
true  relation,  is  the  hidden  source  of  the  vast 
and  to  a  large  extent  useless  labours,  which 
form  the  great  body  of  Shakespearean  phil- 
ology.    This  in  common  with  the  philology  of 
the   nineteenth   century  in  general,    is   uncon- 
sciously dominated  by  romantic  ideas  of  mys- 
tical and  naturalistic  unity,  whence  it  is  not  by 
accident  that  Emerson  is  found  among  the  pre- 
cursors of  hybrid  biographical  aesthetic,  and 
the  romanticizing  Brandes  among  its  most  con- 
spicuous supporters.     These  labours  are  ani- 
mated with  the  hope  of  obtaining  knowledge 
of  the  poetry  of  Shakespeare  in  its  full  reality, 
by  means   of   the   discovery  of  the   complete 
chronology,   of  biographical  incidents,   of  al- 
lusions, and  of  the  origin  of  his  themes.     The 
ranks  of  the  seekers  are  also  swollen  by  those 
who  are  animated  with  like  hopes  and  wish  to 
exhibit  their  cleverness  in  the  solution  of  en- 
igmas, or  are  urged  by  the  .professional  neces- 
sity   of    producing    dissertations    and    theses. 
Unfortunately,   the   documents  and  traditions 
relating  to  the  life  of  Shakespeare  are  very 


„i- 


Ill 


122        TWO   PERSONALITIES 

few.  All  or  nearly  all,  relate  to  external 
and  insignificant  details.  We  are  without  let- 
ters, confessions  or  memoirs  by  the  author, 
and  also  without  authentic  and  abundant  collec- 
tions of  facts  relating  to  him.  Although  almost 
every  year  there  appears  some  new  Life  of 
Shakespeare,  it  is  now  time  to  recognise  with 
resignation  and  clearly  to  declare  that  it  is  not 
possible  to  write  a  biography  of  Shakespeare. 
At  the  most,  an  arid  and  faulty  biographical 
chronicle  can  be  composed,  rather  as  proof  of 
the  devotion  of  posterity,  longing  to  possess 
even  a  shadow  of  that  biography,  than  as  gen- 
uinely satisfying  a  desire  for  knowledge.  Ow- 
ing to  this  lack  of  documents,  the  above-men- 
tioned philological  literature  consists,  almost 
altogether,  of  an  enormous  and  ever  increasing 
number  of  conjectures,  of  which  the  one  con- 
tests, impugns,  or  varies  the  other,  and  all  are 
equally  incapable  of  nourishing  the  mind.  It 
suffices  to  glance  through  a  few  pages  of  a 
Shakespearean  annual  or  handbook,  to  hear  of 
the  "  Southampton  theory,'*  the  **  Pembroke 
theory,**  and  of  other  theories,  in  relation  to 
the  Sonnets;  that  is  to  say,  whether  the  person 
concealed  beneath  the  initials  W.  H.  in  the 
printer*s  dedication,  is  the  Earl  of  Southamp- 


TWO   PERSONALITIES        123 

ton,  or  the  Earl  of  Pembroke,  or  a  musician  of 
the  name  of  Hughes,  or  even  William  Harvey, 
the  third  husband  of  Southampton's  mother,  or 
the  retail  bookseller,  William  Hell,  or  an  in- 
vention of  the  printer,  or  a  joke  of  the  poet, 
who  should  thus  indicate  himself  (William 
Himself)  ;  and  so  on,  with  the  "  Fitton  theory,*' 
the  "  Davenant  theory,*'  and  the  like,  that  is 
to  say,  whether  the  **  dark  lady,"  celebrated  in 
some  of  the  sonnets,  be  a  court  lady  of  the 
name  of  Mary  Fitton,  or  the  hostess  by  whom 
Shakespeare  is  said  to  have  become  the  father 
of  the  poet  Davenant  (and  one  of  the  critics 
has  dared  admit  that  he  spent  fifteen  years  in  re- 
search and  meditation  on  this  point  alone), 
or  the  French  wife  of  the  printer  Field,  or 
finally  a  conventional  and  imaginary  personage 
of  Elizabethan  sonneteering,  which  was  based 
upon  the  manner  of  Petrarch.  And  in  the 
same  way  as  with  the  Sonnets,  there  have  been 
conjectures  of  the  most  varied  sorts  as  to 
Shakespeare's  marriage,  his  relations  with  his 
wife,  the  incidents  of  his  family  and  of  his 
profession.  Passing  to  the  plays,  there  are  and 
have  been  discussions  without  apparent  end,  as 
to  whether  Titus  Andronicus  be  an  original 
work,  or  has  been  patched  up  by  him;  as  to 


11. 


f  -=r. 


1» 


ii,i 


!     I 


124        TWO   PERSONALITIES 

whether  Henry  VI  be  all  of  It  his,  or  only  a  part, 
or  revised  and  enlarged  by  him;  as  to  which 
portions  of  Henry  VHI  and  of  Pericles  are  his 
and  which  Fletcher's,  or  whether  by  other 
hands;  as  to  whether  Timon  be  a  sketch  fin- 
ished by  others  or  a  sketch  by  others  finished 
by  Shakespeare;  whether  and  to  what  extent 
there  persists  in  Hamlet  a  previous  Hamlet  by 
Kyd  or  by  another  author ;  whether  certain  of 
the  so-called  "  apocryphas,''  such  as  Arden  of 
Feversham  and  Edward  HI,  are  on  the  con- 
trary to  be  held  to  be  authentic.  In  like  man- 
ner, the  difficulties  connected  with  the  chron- 
ology are  great  and  conjectures  numerous.  The 
Dream,  for  instance,  is  by  some  placed  in  the 
year  1590,  by  others  in  1595,  Julius  Caesar 
now  in  1606,  now  in  1599,  Cymbeline  in  1605 
and  161 1,  Troilus  and  Cressida,  by  some  in 
1599,  by  others  in  1603,  by  others  still  in  1609, 
by  yet  others  resolved  into  three  parts  or  strata, 
form  1592  to  1606,  and  1607,  with  additions 
by  other  hands.  For  the  majority,  the  Temp- 
est belongs  to  the  year  161 1,  but  is  by  others 
dated  earlier,  and  as  regards  Hamlet  again,  in 
its  first  form,  there  are  some  who  believe  that 
it  was  composed,  not  by  any  means  in  1602,  but 
between  1592  and  1594.     And  so  on,  without 


TWO   PERSONALITIES        125 

advantage  being  taken  of  the  few  sure  aids 
offered  by  stylistic  or  metrical  measurements, 
as  one  may  prefer  to  call  them.  Now  con- 
jectures are  of  use  as  heuristic  instruments,  only 
in  so  far  as  it  is  hoped  to  convert  them  into 
certainties,  by  means  of  the  documents  of  which 
they  aid  in  the  search  and  the  interpretation. 
But  when  this  is  not  possible,  they  are  alto- 
gether vain  and  vacuous,  and  consequently, 
were  they  convertible  into  certainties,  would 
not  give  the  solution  or  the  criterion  of  solution 
of  the  critical  problems  relating  to  the  poetry 
of  Shakespeare.  When  they  are  not  to  be  so 
converted  and  remain  mere  vague  imagining, 
they  do  not  even  supply  the  practical  and  bio- 
graphical history,  which  others  delude  them- 
selves with  the  belief  that  they  can  construct 
piecemeal  by  means  of  them.  Hence  it  has  hap- 
pened that  careful  writers,  who  have  wished  to 
give  the  character  and  life  of  Shakespeare,  as 
far  as  possible  without  hypotheses  and  fancies, 
have  been  obliged  to  retail  a  series  of  general 
assertions,  in  which  all  individualisation  is  lost, 
even  if  Shakespeare  be  pronounced  good,  hon- 
est, gentle,  serviceable,  prudent,  laborious, 
frank,  gay,  and  the  like. 

But  the  majority  convert  the  less  probable 


>'   ^ 


i 


I' 


126       TWO   PERSONALITIES 

conjectures  Into  certainties,  and  proceed  from 
conjecture  to  conjecture  and  from  assertion  to 
assertion,  finally  producing,  under  the  title, 
Life  of  Shakespeare,  nothing  but  a  romance, 
which,  however,  always  turns  out  to  be  too 
colourless  to  be  called  artistic.  A  rapacious 
hand  Is  stretched  out  to  seize  the  poetical  works 
themselves,  with  the  view  of  writing  this  sort 
of  fiction  since  (to  quote  the  author  of  one  of 
these  unamusing  fictions,  Brandes)  it  cannot  be 
admitted  that  it  Is  Impossible  to  know  by  de- 
ducing them  from  his  writings,  the  life,  the  ad- 
ventures, and  the  person  of  a  man  who  has  left 
about  forty  plays  and  poems.  And  It  Is  cer- 
tainly possible  to  deduce  all  these  things  from 
the  poetical  writings,  but  the  life,  and  the 
poetical  adventures  and  personages,  not  the 
practical  and  biographical;  save  in  the  case 
(which  Is  not  that  of  Shakespeare,)  where 
definitely  Informative,  autobiographical  state- 
ments and  excursions  are  to  be  found  among 
the  poems,  that  Is  to  say,  passages  that  are  not 
poetical,  but  prosaic.  In  every  other  Instance, 
the  poetical  emotion  does  not  lead  to  the  prac- 
tical, because  the  relation  between  the  two  is 
not  deterministic,  from  effect  to  cause,  but  crea- 
tive, from  material  to  form,  and  therefore  in- 


TWO   PERSONALITIES        127 

commensurable.  The  moment  it  Is  raised  to 
the  sphere  of  poetry,  a  sentiment  that  has 
really  been  experienced  Is  plucked  from  Its 
practical  and  realistic  soil,  and  made  the  mo- 
tive of  composition  for  a  world  of  dreams,  one 
of  the  infinite  possible  worlds.  In  which  it  Is  as 
useless  to  seek  any  longer  the  reality  of  that 
sentiment,  as  It  Is  vain  to  seek  a  drop  of  water 
poured  Into  the  ocean,  and  transformed  from 
what  It  was  previously  by  ocean's  vast  embrace. 
One  feels  almost  Inclined  to  repeat  as  warning 
that  strophe  from  the  Sonnets,  where  the  poet 
said  of  his  mistress  to  his  friend : 

**  Nay,  if  you  read  this  line,  remember  not 
The  hand  that  writ  it;  for  I  love  you  so, 
That  I  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be  forgot, 
If  thinking  on  me  then  should  make  you  woe." 

For  this  reason,  when  we  read  In  Brandes's 
book  (which  we  select  for  quotation  here,  be- 
cause it  has  been  widely  circulated),  such  state- 
ments as  that  Richard  III,  the  deformed  dwarf, 
whom  we  feel  to  be  superior  in  Intellect,  ad- 
umbrates Shakespeare  himself,  obliged  to  adopt 
the  despised  profession  of  the  actor,  but  full  of 
the  pride  of  genius,  It  is  not  a  case  of  rejecting 


Ill 

101 


I 


128       TWO   PERSONALITIES 

or  accepting  his  statements,  but  of  simply  look- 
ing upon  them  as  so  many  conjectures  founded 
upon  air  and  as  such,  devoid  of  interest.  This 
criterion  can  also  be  applied  in  the  following 
cases:  that  the  pitiful  death  of  the  youthful 
Prince  Arthur,  in  Kin^  John,  shows  traces  of 
the  loss  of  one  of  his  sons,  sustained  by  the 
author  at  the  moment  when  he  was  composing 
that  drama ;  that  the  riotous  youth  of  Henry  V 
is  a  symbol  of  the  youth  of  Shakespeare  during 
his  first  years  in  London;  that  Brutus,  in  Julius 
Caesar,  has  reference  to  the  persons  of  Essex 
and  Southampton,  protectors  of  the  poet  and 
unsuccessful  conspirators  against  the  queen; 
that  Coriolanus,  disdainful  of  praise,  is  Shake- 
speare in  the  attitude  that  it  suited  him  to  take 
up  towards  the  public  and  the  critics;  that  the 
feeling  of  King  Lear,  appalled  with  ingratitude, 
is  that  of  the  poet,  appalled  at  the  ingratitude 
he  experienced  at  the  hands  of  his  colleagues, 
of  the  impresarii  and  of  his  pupils ;  and  finally 
that  Shakespeare  must  have  written  those  ter- 
rible dramas  in  the  nocturnal  hours,  although 
he  most  probably  worked  as  a  rule  in  the  early 
morning;  together  with  many  other  fancies  of 
a  similar  sort;  it  is  not  a  case  of  accepting  or 
of  confuting  them,  but  of  just  taking  them  for 


TWO   PERSONALITIES        129 

what  they  are,  conjectures  based  upon  air,  and 
as  such  of  no  interest. 

The  like  may  be  said  of  another  volume, 
which  has  also  been  much  discussed,  that  of 
Harris.  Here,  in  a  view  based  upon  the  in- 
spection of  his  lyrics  and  dramas,  he  is  repre- 
sented as  sensual  and  neuropathic,  almost  af- 
fected with  erotic  mania,  weak  of  will,  attracted 
and  tyrannised  over  during  almost  the  whole 
of  his  life,  by  a  fascinating  and  faithless  dark 
lady,  named  Mary  Fitton.  Hence  the  origin 
of  his  most  poignant  tragedies,  and  the  mystery 
that  conceals  his  last  years,  when  he  withdrew 
to  Stratford,  by  no  means  with  the  intention 
of  there  enjoying  the  peace  of  the  country  as  a 
foenerator  Appius,  but  because,  ruined  in  body 
and  soul,  he  wished  there  to  nurse  his  ills,  or 
rather  to  die  there,  as  soon  afterwards  he  did. 

The  period  of  the  great  tragedies,  especially, 
has  been  connected  with  circumstances  in  the 
private  life  of  the  author  and  with  events  in 
English  public  life.  This  too  may  or  may  not 
be  true:  Shakespeare  may  or  may  not  have 
been  extremely  excitable,  both  in  personal  and 
practical  matters;  he  may  on  the  other  hand 
have  remained  perfectly  calm  and  watched  the 
tossing  sea  from  the  shore,  with  that  tone  of 


m 


t 


m 


it, 

i 
3 


130       TWO   PERSONALITIES 

feeling  proper  to  artists,  described  by  psycho- 
logists as  Sche'tngefuhle,  a  feeling  of  appear- 
ance and  dream.  No  value  also  is  to  be  at- 
tributed to  conjectures  as  to  the  models  that 
Shakespeare  sometimes  had  before  him:  for 
Shylock  in  the  shape  of  some  adventurer  of 
his  time,  or  for  Prospero  in  the  person  of  the 
Emperor  Rudolph  II,  who  was  interested  in 
science  and  magic,  and  the  like,  because  the 
relation  between  art  and  its  model  is  incom- 
mensurable. In  reading  the  works  of  Shake- 
speare, one  is  sometimes  inclined  to  think  (as 
for  that  matter  in  the  case  of  other  poets) ,  that 
some  affection  or  incident  of  the  life  of  the 
author  is  to  be  found  in  the  words  of  this  or 
that  character,  as  for  example  in  Cymbeline, 
where  Posthumus  says, 

"  Could  I  find  out 
The  woman's  part  in  me !     But  there's  no  motion 
That  tends  to  vice  in  man,  but  I  affirm 
It  is  the  woman's  part!" 

or  in  those  others  of  Troilus  and  Cressida: 

"Lechery,  lechery;  still,  wars  and  lechery;  nothing 
else  holds  fashions :  a  burning  devil  take  them !  " 

in  the  same  way  as  some  have  suspected  a  per- 
sonal memory  in  the  case  of  Dante,  in  the 


TWO   PERSONALITIES         131 

Francesca  episode  of  the  reading  and  inebria- 
tion.    But  there  is  nothing  to  be  done  with 
this  suspicion  and  the  thought  that  suggested  it. 
Nor  is  there  anything  to  be  built  upon  in  those 
rare  passages,  where  it  may  seem  that  the  poet 
breaks  the  coherence  and  aesthetic  level  of  his 
work,  in  order  to  lay  stress  upon  some  real  or 
practical  feeling  of  his  own,  by  over-accentua- 
tion; because,  even  if  we  admit  that  there  are 
such  passages  in  Shakespeare,  it  always  remains 
doubtful  whether  for  him,  as  for  other  poets, 
the  true  motive  for  this  inopportune  emphasis, 
is  to  be  found  in  the  eruption  of  his  own  power- 
ful feelings,  or  rather  in  some  other  accidental 
motive. 

We  may  also  save  ourselves  from  wonder 
and  invective  of  the  "  Baconian  hypothesis,*' 
by  means  of  this  indifference  of  the  poetical 
work  towards  biography.  This  hypothesis 
maintains  that  the  real  author  of  the  plays, 
which  pass  under  the  name  of  Shakespeare,  was 
Francis  Bacon.  We  are  likewise  preserved 
from  those  others  of  more  recent  date  and 
vogue,  which  maintain  that  the  author  was 
Roger,  fifth  Earl  of  Rutland,  or  that  Rutland 
collaborated  with  Southampton,  or  that  there 
really  existed  a  society  of  dramatic  author? 


lii 


Hi 


132       TWO   PERSONALITIES 

(Chettle,  Heywood,  Webster,  etc.)  with  the 
final  revision  entrusted  to  Bacon,  or  finally  (the 
latest  discovery  of  the  sort)  that  he  was  Wil- 
liam Stanley,  sixth  Earl  of  Derby.  A  thou- 
sand or  more  volumes,  opuscules  and  articles 
have  been  printed  to  deal  with  these  conjec- 
tures, and  although  —  to  the  severe  eye  of  the 
trained  philologist  —  they  may  justly  seem  to 
be  extravagant,  yet  they  retain  the  merit  of 
being  a  sort  of  involuntarily  ironic  treatment 
of  the  purely  philological  method  and  of  its 
abuse  of  conjecture. 

But  even  if  we  grant  the  unlikely  contention 
that  in  the  not  very  great  brain  of  the  philoso- 
pher Bacon,  there  lodged  the  brain  of  a  very 
great  poet,  from  which  proceeded  the  Shake- 
spearean drama,  nothing  would  thereby  have 
been  discovered  or  proved,  save  a  singular 
marvel,  a  joke,  a  monstrosity  of  nature.  The 
artistic  problem  would  remain  untouched,  be- 
cause that  drama  remains  always  the  same; 
Lear  laments  and  imprecates  in  the  same  man- 
ner, Othello  struggles  furiously,  Hamlet  medi- 
tates and  wavers  before  the  problem  of  human- 
ity and  the  action  that  he  is  called  upon  to 
take,  and  in  the  same  manner,  all  are  enwrapped 
in  the  veil  of  Eternity. 


TWO   PERSONALITIES        133 

It  is  a  good  thing  to  shake  off  this  weight  of 
erroneous  philology  (another  philology  exists 
alongside  of  it,  which  is  not  erroneous,  since  it 
preserves  the  probably  genuine  text,  and  in- 
terprets the  vocabulary  and  the  historical  refer- 
ences with  a  genuine  feeling  for  art),  not  only 
because,  whether  or  no  it  attain  the  end  of 
biography,  it  distracts  attention  from  the  right 
and  proper  object  of  artistic  criticism,  but  also 
because  it  employs  the  biography,  true  or  false, 
for  the  purpose  of  clouding  and  changing  the 
artistic  vision.  Confounding  art  and  docu- 
ment, it  transports  into  art  whatever  it  has  dis- 
covered or  believes  itself  to  have  discovered  by 
means  of  research,  turning  the  serene  composi- 
tions of  the  poet  into  a  series  of  shudders,  cries, 
restless  motions,  convulsions,  ferocious  springs, 
manifestations,  now  of  sentimental  rapture, 
now  of  furious  desire. 

We  know  that  it  is  necessary  to  make  an 
effort  of  abstraction,  to  forget  biographical  de- 
tails concerning  the  poets,  in  those  cases  where 
they  abound,  if  we  wish  to  enjoy  their  art,  in 
what  it  possesses  of  ideality,  which  is  truth. 
We  know,  too,  that  poets  and  artists  have  al- 
ways experienced  dislike  and  contempt  for 
those  gossip-mongers,  who  investigate  and  re- 


134        TWO   PERSONALITIES 

cord  the  private  occurrences  of  their  lives,  in 
order  to  extract  from  them  the  elements  of 
artistic  judgment.  This  is  the  reason  why  a 
poet's  contemporaries  and  his  fellow-country- 
men and  fellow-townsmen  are  said  not  to  be 
good  judges  and  that  no  one  is  a  poet  or 
prophet  among  his  familiars  and  in  the  place 
of  his  birth. 

The  advantage  of  the  lack  of  a  bar  to  artis- 
tic contemplation,  one  of  the  good  consequences 
of  this  lack  of  biographical  detail  relating  to 
Shakespeare,  is  thrown  away  by  these  conjec- 
turers,  who,  like  the  mule  of  Galeazzo  Flori- 
monte,  bring  stones  to  birth  that  they  may 
stumble  upon  them. 

We  can  observe  the  re-immersion  of  Shake- 
spearean poetry  in  psychological  materiality  in 
the  already  mentioned  book  of  Brandes  (and 
also  to  some  extent  in  the  more  subtle  and  in- 
genious work  of  Frank  Harris)  and  in  the  case 
of  Brandes,  the  readjustment  of  values  that  is 
its  consequence,  as  with  King  Lear  and  Timon, 
both  documents  of  misanthropy  induced  by  in- 
gratitude; and  even  the  sinking  of  values  into 
non-values,  when  he  fails  to  effect  his  psycho- 
logical reduction,  even  by  means  of  those  ex- 
travagant methods,  as  in  the  case  of  Macbeth, 


TWO   PERSONALITIES        135 

where  he  declares  that  this  play,  which  is  one 
of  the  dramatic  masterpieces,  appears  to  him  to 
possess  but  "  slight  interest,"  because  he  does 
not  feel  **  the  heart  of  Shakespeare  beating 
there,"  that  is  to  say,  of  the  Shakespeare  en- 
dowed with  certain  practical  objects  and  inter- 
ests by  his  imagination. 

This  error  is  also  to  be  found  in  the  so-called 
"  pictures  of  the  society  of  the  time,"  by  means 
of  which  another  group  has  striven  to  interpret 
the  art  of  Shakespeare.  These  are  not  less 
extrinsic  and  disturbing  than  the  others,  assum- 
ing that  they  are  composed  with  like  historical 
ignorance.  Taine,  for  instance,  having  got  it 
into  his  head  that  the  English  of  the  time  of 
Elizabeth  were  ''  des  betes  sauvages/'  de- 
scribes the  drama  of  the  time  as  a  reproduc- 
tion "  sans  choix ''  of  all  "  les  laideurs,  les  bas- 
sesses,  les  horreurs,  les  details  crus,  les  moeurs 
dereglees  et  feroces ''  of  that  time,  and  the 
style  of  Shakespeare  as  ''  un  compose  d* expres- 
sions forceneesy  in  such  wise  that  when  one 
reads  the  famous  Histoire  de  la  litterature  an- 
glaise,  it  is  difficult  to  say  whether  poets  or  as- 
sassins are  passing  across  the  stage,  whether 
these  be  artistic  and  harmonious  contests,  or 
dagger-thrust     struggles.     The     opinion     of 


t 


136       Two   PERSONALITIES 

Goethe  is  opposed  to  all  these  deformations,  to 
the  Shakespeare  who  moans  and  shrieks  on  the 
wind  of  the  wild  passions  of  his  time,  to  that 
other  Shakespeare  who  reveals  the  wounds  of 
his  own  sickly  soul  with  bitter  sarcasm  and  dis- 
gust. In  the  conversations  with  Eckermann, 
he  gives  as  his  impression  that  the  plays  of 
Shakespeare  were  the  work  '*  of  a  man  in  per- 
fect health  and  strength,  both  in  body  and 
spirit '' ;  he  must  indeed  have  been  healthy  and 
strong  and  free,  when  he  created  something  so 
free,  so  healthy  and  so  strong  as  his  poetry. 

In  a  calmer  sphere  of  considerations,  those 
who  make  the  personages  and  the  action  of  the 
plays  depend  upon  the  political  and  social  events 
of  the  time  commit  a  similar  deterministic  error 
—  upon  the  victory  over  the  Armada,  the  con- 
spiracy of  Essex,  the  death  of  Elizabeth,  the 
accession  of  James,  the  geographical  discoveries 
and  colonisation  of  the  day,  the  contests  with 
the  Puritans,  and  the  like. 

Others  err  in  tracing  the  different  forms  of 
the  poetry  to  the  course  of  his  reading,  to  the 
Chronicle  of  Hollnshed,  to  Italian  novels,  to 
the  Lives  of  Plutarch,  and  especially  to  the 
Essais  of  Montaigne  (where  Chasles  and 
others  of  more  recent  date  have  placed  the 


TWO   PERSONALITIES 


137 


origin  of  the  new  great  period  of  his  poetical 
work)  ;  others  again  have  found  it  in  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  English  stage  of  the  time,  and 
in  the  various  tastes  of  the  "  reserved  "  and 
"  pit "  seats,  as  in  the  so-called  '*  realistic  '* 
criticism  of  Riimelin. 

The  poetry,  then,  should  certainly  be  inter- 
preted historically,  but  in  the  proper  sense,  dis- 
connected, that  is  to  say  from  a  history  that 
is  foreign  to  it  and  with  which  its  only  connec- 
tion is  that  prevailing  between  a  man  and  what 
he  disregards,  puts  away  from  him  and  rejects, 
because  it  either  injures  him  or  is  of  no  use,  or, 
which  comes  to  the  same  thing,  because  he  has 
already  made  sufficient  use  of  it. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


SHAKESPEAREAN  SENTIMENT 

Everyone  possesses  at  the  bottom  of  his 
heart,  as  it  were,  a  synthetic  or  compendious 
image  of  a  poet  like  Shakespeare,  who  belongs 
to  the  common  patrimony  of  culture,  and  in  his 
memory  the  definitions  of  him  that  have  been 
given  and  have  become  current  formulae.  It 
is  well  to  fix  the  mind  upon  that  image,  to  re- 
member these  formulae,  and  to  extract  from 
them  their  principal  meanings,  with  the  view  of 
obtaining,  at  least  in  a  preliminary  and  prov- 
isory manner,  the  characteristic  spiritual  atti- 
tude of  Shakespeare,  his  poetical  sentiment. 

The  first  observation  leaps  to  the  eye  and  is 
generally  admitted:  namely,  that  no  particular 
feeling  or  order  of  feelings  prevails  in  him;  it 
cannot  be  said  of  him  that  he  is  an  amorous 
poet,  like  Petrarch,  a  desperately  sad  poet  like 
Leopardi,  or  heroic,  as  Homer.  His  name  is 
adorned  rather  with  such  epithets  as  universal 
poet,    as   perfectly    objective,    entirely   imper- 

138 


SENTIMENT 


139 


sonal,  extraordinarily  impartial.  Sometimes 
even  his  coldness  has  been  remarked  -^  a  cold- 
ness certainly  sublime,  "  that  of  a  sovran  spirit, 
which  has  described  the  complete  curve  of  hu- 
man existence  and  has  survived  all  sentiment " 
(Schlegel). 

Nor  is  he  a  poet  of  ideals,  as  they  are  called, 
whether  they  be  religious,  ethical,  political,  or 
social.  This  explains  the  antipathy  frequently 
manifested  towards  him  by  apostles  of  various 
sorts,  of  whom  the  last  was  Tolstoi,  and  the 
unsatisfied  desires  that  take  fire  in  the  minds 
of  the  right  thinking,  urging  them  always  to 
ask  of  any  very  great  man  for  something  more, 
for  a  supplement.  They  conclude  their  ad- 
miration with  a  sigh  that  there  should  really 
be  something  missing  in  him  —  he  is  not  to  be 
numbered  along  those  who  strive  for  more 
liberal  political  forms  and  for  a  more  equable 
social  balance,  nor  has  he  had  bowels  of  com- 
passion for  the  humble  and  the  plebeian.  A 
certain  school  of  German  critics  (Ulrici,  Gerv- 
inus,  Kreyssig,  Vischer,  etc. ) ,  perhaps  as  an  act 
of  opposition  to  such  apparent  accusations  (I 
would  not  recommend  the  reading  of  these 
authors,  whom  I  have  felt  obliged  to'  peruse 
owing  to  the  nature  of  my  task)  began  to  rep- 


-v 


140 


SENTIMENT 


SENTIMENT 


141 


II 


resent  Shakespeare  as  a  lofty  master  of  moral- 
ity,   a   casuist   most   acute    and  reliable,    who 
never  fails  to  solve  an  ethical  problem  in  the 
correct  way,  a  prudent  and  austere  counsellor 
in  politics,  and  above  all,  an  infallible  judge 
of  actions,  a  distributor  of  rewards  and  pun- 
ishments,  graduated  according  to   merit  and 
demerit,  paying  special  attention  that  not  even 
the  slightest  fault  should  go  unpunished.     Now 
setting  aside  the  fact  that  the  ends  attributed 
to  him  were  not  in  accordance  with  his  charac- 
ter as  a  poet  and  bore  evidence  only  to  the 
lack  of  taste  of  those  critics;  setting  aside  that 
the  design  of  distributing  rewards  and  punish- 
ments according  to  a  moral  scale,  which  they 
imagine  to  exist  and  praise  in  him,  was  alto- 
gether  impossible  of  accomplishment  by  any 
man  or  even  by  any  God,  since  rewards  and 
punishments  are  thoughts  altogether  foreign  to 
the  moral  consciousness  and  of  a  purely  prac- 
tical and  judicial  nature;  setting  aside   these 
facts,  which  are  generally  considered  unworthy 
of  discussion  and  jeered  at  in  the  most  recent 
criticism,  as  the  ridiculous  survivals  of  a  by- 
gone age,  even  if  we  make  the  attempt  to  trans- 
late these  statements  into  a  less  illogical  form, 


and  assume  that  there  really  existed  in  Shake- 
speare an  inclination  for  problems  of  that  sort, 
they  shew  themselves  to  be  at  variance  with 
simple  reality.  Shakespeare  caressed  no  ideals 
of  any  sort  and  least  of  all  political  ideals;  and 
although  he  magnificently  represents  political 
struggles  also,  he  always  went  beyond  their 
specific  character  and  object,  attaining  through 
them  to  the  only  thing  that  really  attracted 
him;  life. 

This  sense  of  life  is  also  extolled  in  his  work, 
which  for  that  reason  is  held  to  be  eminently 
dramatic,  that  is  to  say,  animated  with  a  sense 
of  life  considered  in  itself,  in  its  eternal  dis- 
cord, its  eternal  harshness,  its  bitter-sweet,  in 
all  its  complexity. 

To  feel  life  potently,  without  the  determina- 
tion of  a  passion  or  an  ideal,  implies  feeling  it 
unilluminated  by  faith,  undisciplined  by  any 
law  of  goodness,  not  to  be  corrected  by  the 
human  will,  not  to  be  reduced  to  the  enjoyment 
of  idyllic  calm,  or  to  the  inebriation  of  joy;  and 
Shakespeare  has  indeed  been  judged  in  turn  not 
religious,  not  moral,  no  assertor  of  the  free- 
dom of  the  will,  and  no  optimist.  But  no  one 
has  yet  dared  to  judge  him  to  be  irreligious, 


/ 


142 


SENTIMENT 


I 


':  t 


immoral,  a  fatalist,  or  a  pessimist,  for  these 
adjectives  are  seen  not  to  suit  him,^  as  soon  as 
they  are  pronounced. 

And  here  too  were  required  the  strange  aber- 
ration of  fancy  of  a  Taine,  his  singular  inca- 
pacity for  receiving  clear  impressions  of  the 
truth,  in  order  to  portray  the  feeling  of 
Shakespeare  towards  man  and  life  as  being 
fundamentally  irrational,  based  on  blind  decep- 
tion, a  sequence  of  hasty  impulses  and  swarm- 
ing images,  without  an  autonomous  centre, 
where  truth  and  wisdom  are  accidental  and  un- 
stable effects,  or  appearances  without  substance. 
These  are  simply  exercises  in  style,  repeated 
with  variants  from  other  writers;  they  do  not 
even  present  a  caricature  of  the  art  of  Shake- 
speare, since  even  for  this,  some  connection 
with  fact  is  necessary.  Shakespeare,  who  has 
so  strong  a  feeling  for  the  bounds  set  to  the 
human  will,  in  relation  to  the  Whole,  which 
stands  above  it,  possesses  the  feeling  for  the 
power  of  human  liberty  in  equal  degree.  As 
Hazlitt  says,  he,  who  in  some  respects  is  "  the 
least  moral  of  poets,''  is  in  others  **  the  great- 
est of  moralists."  He  who  beholds  the  un- 
removable presence  of  evil  and  sorrow,  has  his 
eye  open  and  intent  in  an  equal  degree  upon 


SENTIMENT 


143 


the  shining  forth  of  the  good,  the  smile  of  joy, 
and  is  healthy  and  virile  as  no  pessimist  ever 
was.  He  who  nowhere  in  his  works  refers 
directly  to  a  God,  has  ever  present  within  him 
the  obscure  consciousness  of  a  divinity,  of  an 
unknown  divinity,  and  the  spectacle  of  the 
world,  taken  by  itself,  seems  to  him  to  be  with- 
out significance,  men  and  their  passions  a  dream, 
a  dream  that  has  for  intrinsic  and  correlative 
end  a  reality  which,  though  hidden,  is  more 
solid  and  perhaps  more  lofty. 

But  we  must  be  careful  not  to  insist  too  much 
upon  these  positive  definitions  and  represent  his 
sentiment  as  though  it  were  one  in  which  nega- 
tive elements  were  altogether  overcome.  The 
good,  virtue,  is  without  doubt  stronger  in 
Shakespeare  than  evil  and  vice,  not  because  it 
overcomes  and  resolves  the  other  term  in  itself, 
but  simply  because  it  is  light  opposed  to  dark- 
ness, because  it  is  the  good,  because  it  is  virtue. 
This  is  because  of  its  special  quality,  which  the 
poet  discerns  and  seizes  in  its  original  purity 
and  truth,  without  sophisticating  or  weakening 
it.  Positive  and  negative  elements  do  really 
become  interlaced  or  run  into  one  another,  in 
his  mode  of  feeling,  without  becoming  recon- 
ciled in  a  superior  harmony.     Their  natural 


a 


-ce 


144 


SENTIMENT 


logic  can  be  expressed  in  terms  of  rectitude, 
justice  and  sincerity;  but  their  logic  and  nat- 
ural character  also  finds  its  expression  in  terms 
of  ambition,  cupidity,  egoism  and  satanic  wick- 
edness. The  will  is  accurately  aimed  at  the 
target,  but  also,  it  is  sometimes  diverted  from 
it  by  a  power,  which  it  does  not  recognise,  al- 
though it  obeys  it,  as  though  under  a  spell. 
The  sky  becomes  serene  after  the  devastating 
hurricane,  honourable  men  occupy  the  thrones 
from  which  the  wicked  have  fallen,  the  conquer- 
ors  pity  and  praise  the  conquered.  But  the 
desolation  of  faith  betrayed,  of  goodness 
trampled  upon,  of  innocent  creatures  destroyed, 
of  noble  hearts  broken,  remains.  The  God  that 
should  pacify  hearts  is  invoked,  his  presence 
may  even  be  felt,  but  he  never  appears. 

The  poet  does  not  stand  beyond  these  strug- 
gling passions,  attraction  and  repugnance,  love 
and  hate,  hope  and  despair,  joy  and  sorrow; 
but  he  is  beyond  being  on  the  side  of  one  or  the 
other.  He  receives  them  all  in  himself,  not 
that  he  may  feel  them  all,  and  pour  tears  of 
blood  around  them,  but  that  he  may  make  of 
them  his  unique  world,  the  Shakespearean 
world,  which  is  the  world  of  those  undecided 
conflicts. 


SENTIMENT 


145 


What  poets  appear  at  first  sight  more  differ- 
ent than  Shakespeare  and  Ariosto?  Yet  they 
have  this  in  common,  that  both  look  upon  some- 
thing that  is  beyond  particular  emotions,  and 
for  this  reason  it  has  been  said  of  both  of 
them,  more  than  once,  that  **  they  speak  but 
little  to  the  heart."  They  are  certainly  senti- 
mental and  agitated  by  the  passions  to  a  very 
slight  degree;  the  '*  humour  "  of  both  has  been 
referred  to,  a  word  that  we  avoid  here,  be- 
cause it  is  so  uncertain  of  meaning  and  of  such 
little  use  in  determining  profound  emotions  of 
the  spirit.  Ariosto  veils  and  shades  all  the  par- 
ticular feelings  that  he  represents,  by  means  of 
his  divine  irony;  and  Shakespeare,  in  a  differ- 
ent way,  by  endowing  all  with  equal  vigour  and 
relief,  succeeds  in  creating  a  sort  of  equilibrium, 
by  means  of  reciprocal  tension,  which,  owing 
to  its  mode  of  genesis,  differs  in  every  other 
respect  from  the  harmony  in  which  the  singer 
of  the  Furioso  delights.  Ariosto  surpasses 
good  and  evil,  retaining  interest  in  them  only 
on  account  of  the  rhythm  of  life,  so  constant 
and  yet  so  various,  which  arises,  expands,  be- 
comes extinguished  and  is  reborn,  to  grow  and 
again  to  become  extinguished.  Shakespeare 
surpasses  all  individual  emotions,  but  he  does 


146 


SENTIMENT 


SENTIMENT 


147     - 


i  .i! 


it 


not  surpass,  on  the  contrary,  he  strengthens  our 
interest  in  good  and  evil,  in  sorrow  and  joy,  in 
destiny  and  necessity,  in  appearance  and  reality, 
and  the  vision  of  this  strife  is  his  poetry.  Thus 
the  one  has  been  metaphorically  called  "  im- 
aginative " ;  the  other  "  realistic,'*  and  the  one 
has  been  opposed  to  the  other.  They  are  op- 
posed to  one  another,  yet  they  meet  at  one 
point,  not  at  the  general  one  of  both  being 
poets,  but  at  the  specific  point  of  being  cosmic 
poets,  not  only  in  the  sense  in  which  every  poet 
is  cosmical,  but  in  the  particular  sense  above 
explained.  Let  us  hope  that  it  is  not  neces- 
sary to  recommend  that  this  should  be  under- 
stood with  the  necessary  reservations,  that  is 
to  say,  as  the  trait  that  dominates  the  two 
poets  in  a  different  way  and  does  not  exclude 
the  other  individual  traits  of  feature,  above  all 
not  that  which  belongs  to  all  poetry  whatso- 
ever. The  limits  set  to  every  critical  study, 
which  should  henceforth  be  known  to  all,  are 
laid  down  by  the  impossibility  of  ever  render- 
ing in  logical  terms  the  full  effect  of  any  poetry 
or  of  other  artistic  work,  since  it  is  clear  that 
if  such  a  translation  were  possible,  art  would 
be  impossible,  that  is  to  say,  superfluous,  be- 
cause   admitting   of    a    substitute,     Criticism, 


nevertheless,  within  those  limits,  performs  its 
own  office,  which  is  to  discern  and  to  point  out 
exactly  where  lies  the  poetical  motive  and  to 
formulate  the  divisions  which  aid  in  distinguish- 
ing what  is  proper  to  every  work. 

For  the  rest,  if  Ariosto  has  often  been  com- 
pared to  contemporary  painters,  with  the  ob- 
ject of  drawing  attention  to  his  harmonic  in- 
spiration, Ludwig  has  been  unable  to  abstain 
from  making  similar  comparisons  for  Shake- 
speare.    He  found  the  most  adequate  image 
for  his  dramas  in  the  portraits  and  landscapes 
of  Titian,  of  Giorgione,  of  Paul  Veronese,  as 
contrasting  with  the  amiability  of  Correggio, 
the  insipidity  of  the  Caracci,  the  affected  man- 
ner of  Guido  and  of  Carlo  Dolce,  the  crudity 
of  the  naturalists  Caravaggio  and  Ribera.     In 
Shakespeare,  as  in  those  great  Venetians,  there 
is   everywhere    "  existence,"    life   upon    earth, 
transfigured  perhaps,  but  devoid  of  restlessness, 
of  aureoles  and  of  sentimentalisms,  serene  even 
where  tragic. 

This  sense  of  strife  in  vital  unity,  this  pro- 
found sense  of  life,  prevents  the  vision  from 
becoming  simplified  and  superficialised  in  the 
antitheses  of  good  and  evil,  of  elect  and  rep- 
robate beings,  and  causes  the  introduction  of 


vW. 


148 


SENTIMENT 


SENTIMENT 


149 


I 


V 


conflict,  In  varying  measure  and  degree,  in  every 
being.  Thus  the  battle  is  fought  at  the  very 
heart  of  things.  Hence  the  aspect  of  mystery 
that  surrounds  the  actions  and  events  portrayed 
by  Shakespeare,  which  is  not  to  be  understood 
in  the  general  sense  that  every  vision  of  art  is 
a  mystery,  but  rather  in  the  special  sense  of  a 
course  of  events  of  which  the  poet  not  only 
does  not  possess  (and  could  not  possess)  the 
philosophical  explanation,  but  never  discovers 
the  reposeful  term,  peace  after  war,  the  ac- 
ceptance of  war  as  a  means  to  a  more  lofty 
peace.  For  this  reason  is  everywhere  diffused 
the  terror  of  the  Unknown,  which  surrounds 
on  every  side  and  conceals  a  countenance  that 
may  be  more  terrible  than  terrible  life  itself, 
in  the  development  of  which  human  beings  are 
involved  —  a  countenance  terrible  for  what  it 
will  reveal,  and  perhaps  sublime  and  ecstatic, 
giving  in  its  very  terribleness,  terror  and  rap- 
ture together.  The  mystery  lies  not  only  in  the 
occasional  appearance  of  spectres,  demons, 
witches,  in  the  poetry,  but  in  the  whole  at- 
mosphere of  which  they  form  only  a  part,  assist- 
ing by  their  presence  in  a  more  direct  deter- 
mination. This  mystery  was  well  expressed  by 
the  first  great  critics  who  penetrated  into  the 


world  of  Shakespearean  poetry.  Herder  and 
Goethe,  to  the  second  of  whom  belongs  the 
simile  of  the  Shakespearean  drama  as  "  open 
books  of  Destiny,  in  which  blows  the  wind  of 
emotional  life  here  and  there  stripping  their 
leaves  in  its  violence.''  In  Shakespeare's 
musicality  we  are  everywhere  sensible  of  a  vo- 
luptuous palpitation  before  the  mystery  which 
at  times  reflects  upon  itself  and  supplies  the 
link  between  music  and  love,  music  and  sadness, 
music  and  unknown  Godhead. 

We  must  insist  upon  the  word  **  sentiment," 
which  we  have  adopted  for  the  description  of 
this  spiritual  condition,  in  order  that  it  may  not 
be  mistaken  for  a  concept  or  mode  of  thought 
or  philosopheme,  which  occurs  when  the  word 
**  conception  "  or  *'  mode  of  conceiving  life  " 
is  taken  in  a  literal  and  material  manner  as  ap- 
plied to  Shakespeare  and  in  general  to  the 
poets  —  when,  for  instance,  it  is  asked  by  what 
special  quality  does  Shakespeare's  **  conception 
of  tragedy "  differ  from  Greek  and  French 
tragedy,  and  the  like,  as  though  in  such  a  case, 
it  were  a  question  of  concepts  and  systems. 
Shakespeare  is  not  a  philosopher:  his  spiritual 
tendency  is  altogether  opposed  to  the  philo- 
sophic, which  dominates  both  sentiment  and  the 


I50 


SENTIMEKT 


\ 


l« 


spectacle  of  life  with  thought  that  understands 
and  explains  it,  reconciling  conflicts  under  a  sin- 
gle principle  of  dialectic.  Shakespeare,  on  the 
contrary,  takes  both  and  renders  them  in  their 
vital  mobility  —  they  know  nothing  of  criticism 
or  theory  —  and  he  does  not  offer  any  solu- 
tion other  than  the  evidence  of  visible  represen- 
tation. For  this  reason,  when  he  is  character- 
ised and  receives  praises  for  hi^  "  objectivity," 
his  "impersonality,"  his  "universality,"  and 
those  who  do  this  are  not  satisfied  even  with 
their  incorrect  description  of  the  real  psycho- 
logical differences  noted  above,  but  proceed  to 
claim  a  philosophical  character  for  his  spiritual 
attitude,  it  is  advisable  to  reject  them  all,  con- 
fronting his  objectivity  with  his  poetic  subjec- 
tivity, his  impersonality  with  his  personality, 
his  universality  with  his  individual  mode  of 
feeling.  The  cosmic  oppositions,  in  imagining 
which  he  symbolises  reality  and  life,  not  only 
are  not  philosophical  solutions  for  him  in  his 
plays,  but  they  are  not  even  problems  of 
thought;  only  rarely  do  they  tend  to  take  the 
form  of  bitter  interrogations,  which  remain 
without  answer.  Equally  fantastic  and  arbi- 
trary are  the  attempts  to  compose  a  philosophi- 
cal theory  from  the  work  of  Shakespeare  who 


if 


SENTIMENT 


X5I 


is  alternately,  theistic,  pantheistic,  dualistic,  de- 
terministic, pessimistic  and  optimistic,  by  ex- 
tracting it  from  his  plays  in  the  same  manner  as 
that  employed  in  the  case  of  the  philosophy  im- 
plied in  a  historical  or  political  treatise;  be- 
cause there  is  certainly  a  philosophy  implied  in 
these  latter  cases,  embodied  in  the  historical 
and  political  judgments  which  they  contain.  In 
the  case  of  Shakespeare,  however,  which  is  that 
of  poets  in  general,  to  extract  it  means  to  place 
it  there,  that  is,  to  think  and  to  draw  conclusions 
ourselves  under  the  imaginative  stimulus  of  the 
poet,  and  to  place  in  his  mouth,  through  a  psy- 
chological illusion,  our  own  questions  and  an- 
swers. It  would  only  be  possible  to  discuss  a 
philosophy  of  Shakespeare  if,  like  Dante,  he 
had  developed  one  in  certain  philosophical  sec- 
tions of  his  poems;  but  this  is  not  so,  because 
the  thoughts  that  he  utters  fulfil  no  other  func- 
tion than  that  of  poetical  expressions,  and  when 
they  are  taken  from  their  contexts,  where  they 
sound  so  powerful  and  so  profound,  they  lose 
their  virtue  and  appear  to  be  indeterminate, 
contradictory  or  fallacious. 

It  is  quite  another  question  as  to  whether  his 
sentiment  was  based  upon  what  are  called 
mental  or  philosophical  presumptions  and  as  to 


m 


i 

,  i 


li 


I  '^^ 


a 


im 


152 


SENTIMENT 


SENTIMENT 


153 


51 


what  these,  properly  speaking,  were;  because, 
as  regards  the  first  point,  it  must  be  at  once 
admitted  that  a  sentiment  does  not  appear 
without  a  basis  of  certain  mental  presumptions 
or  concepts,  that  is  to  say,  of  certain  convic- 
tions, affirmations,  negations  and  doubts.  As 
regards  the  second  point,  the  legitimacy  of  the 
enquiry  will  be  admitted,  and  it  will  also  be 
noted  that  this  forms  one  of  several  historical 
enquiries,  relating  to  Shakespeare  in  his  poetry, 
to  which  belongs  the  place  unduly  usurped  by 
ineptitudes  and  superficialities  on  the  theme  of 
his  private  affairs;  his  domestic  relations,  his 
business  transactions,  and  his  pretended  love 
intrigues  with  Mary  Fitton  and  the  hostess  Ma- 
dam Davenant. 

It  is  also  true  that  the  researches  into  the 
mental  presumptions  of  Shakespeare  have  often 
strayed  into  the  external  and  the  anecdotic,  as 
is  the  case  with  such  problems  as  the  religion 
that  he  followed  and  his  political  opinions. 
Stated  in  this  way,  they  likewise  sink  to  the 
level  of  biographical  problems,  indifferent  to 
art.  That  Shakespeare  belonged  to  the  An- 
glican and  not  to  the  Catholic  confession  (as 
some  still  maintain,  a-nd  in  1864  Rio  wrote  a 
whole  book  on  the  subject),  and  opposed  Puri- 


tanism in  one  quality  or  the  other;  that  he  sup- 
ported Essex  in  his  conspiracy,  or  on  the  con- 
trary was  on  the  side  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  mental  presuppositions 
immanent  in  his  poetry.  He  may  have  been 
impious  and  profane  in  active  practical  life  as 
a  Greene  or  a  Marlowe,  or  a  devout  papist, 
worshipping  with  secret  superstition,  like  an 
adept  of  Mary  Stuart,  and  nevertheless  he  may 
have  composed  poetry  with  different  presup- 
positions, upon  thoughts  that  had  entered  his 
mind  and  had  there  become  formed  and  dom- 
inated in  his  spirit,  without  for  that  reason 
having  changed  the  faith  previously  selected 
and  observed.  The  research  of  which  we  speak 
does  not  concern  the  superficial,  but  the  pro- 
found character  of  the  man ;  it  is  not  concerned 
with  the  congealed  and  solidified  stratum,  but 
with  the  tide  that  flows  beneath  it,  which  others 
would  call  the  unconscious  in  relation  to  the 
conscious,  whereas,  it  would  be  more  exact  to 
invert  the  two  qualifications.  Presuppositions 
are  the  philosophemes  that  everyone  carries 
with  him,  gathering  them  from  the  times  and 
from  tradition,  or  forming  them  anew  by  means 
of  his  own  observations  and  rapid  reflections. 
In  poetical  works,  they  form  the  condition  re- 


'■1 

II  ii 


! 
I 


154 


SENTIMENT 


li: 


i-V 


•ft' 


mote  from  the  psychological  attitude,  which 
generates  poetical  visions. 

In  this  depth  of  consciousness,  Shakespeare 
shows  himself  clearly  to  be  outside,  not  only 
Catholicism,  but  also  Protestantism,  not  only 
Christianity,  but  every  religious,  or  rather 
every  transcendental  and  theological  concep- 
tion.  Here  he  also  resembles  the  Italian  poet 
of  the  Renaissance,  Ariosto,'  though  reaching 
the  position  by  different  ways  and  with  different 
results.  His  sentiment  would  have  appeared 
in  an  altogether  different  guise,  if  a  theological 
conception,  such  as  the  belief  in  an  eternal  life, 
in  a  judging  God,  in  rewards  and  punishments 
beyond  this  world,  in  the  view  that  earthly  life 
is  a  trial  and  a  pilgrimage,  had  been  lively  and 
active  in  him.  He  knows  no  other  than  the 
vigorous  passionate  life  upon  earth,  divided 
between  joy  and  sorrow,  with  around  and  above 
it,  the  shadow  of  a  mystery. 

It  is  with  natural  wonder,  then,  that  we  read 
of  Shakespeare,  especially  among  German 
authors,  as  a  spirit  altogether  dominated  by  the 
Christian  ideas  proper  to  the  Reformation, 
whereas,  with  regard  to  Christianity,  he  was  al- 
together lacking,  both  in  the  theology  of  Judaic- 
Hellenic  origin  and  in  the  tendency  to  ascet- 


SENTIMENT 


155 


icism  and  mysticism.  On  the  other  hand  we 
cannot  admit  the  opposite  statement  that  he  was 
a  pagan,  in  the  somewhat  popular  sense  of  self- 
satisfied  hedonism,  because  it  is  not  less  evident 
that  his  moral  discernment,  his  sense  of  what  is 
sinful,  his  delicacy  of  conscience,  his  humanity, 
bear  a  strong  imprint  of  Christian  ethics.  In- 
deed, it  is  precisely  owing  to  this  lofty  and  ex- 
quisite ethical  judgment,  united  to  the  vision  of 
a  world,  which  moves  by  its  own  power  or  any- 
how by  some  mysterious  power,  frequently  op- 
posing or  overthrowing  or  perverting  the 
forces  directed  to  the  good,  that  this  tragic  con- 
flict arises  in  him.  To  this  double  presupposi- 
tion must  be  added,  as  inference,  a  third,  the 
negation,  the  scepticism,  or  the  ignorance  of  the 
conception  of  a  rational  course  of  events  and 
of  a  Providence  that  governs  it.  Not  even 
does  he  accept  inexorable  Fate  as  sole  master 
of  men  and  Gods;  nor  the  determinism  of  in- 
dividual character  as  another  kind  of  Fate,  a 
naturalistic  Fate,  as  some  of  his  interpreters 
have  believed;  he  remains  unaffected  by  the 
hard  Asiatic  or  African  dualistic  idea  of  pre- 
destination; on  the  contrary,  he  recognizes  hu- 
man spontanei^  and  liberty,  as  forces  that 
prove  their  own  reality  in  the  fact  itself,  though 


156 


SENTIMENT 


|: 


l\ 


A 


m 


he  nevertheless  permits  liberty  and  necessity  to 
clash  and  the  one  sometimes  to  overpower  the 
other,  without  establishing  a  relation  between 
the  two,   without  suspecting  their  identity  in 
opposition,   without   discovering  that   the   two 
elements  at  strife  form  the  single  river  of  the 
real,  and  therefore  failing  to  rise  to  the  level 
of  the  modern  theodicy,  which  is  History.     Our 
wonderment  bursts   forth   anew,   in   observing 
the  emphatic  and  insistent  statements  of  such 
writers  as  for  instance  Ulrici  as  to  the  historic- 
ity  of  the   thought   and   of   the   tragedies   of 
Shakespeare,  where  just  what  is  altogether  ab- 
sent is  the  historical  conception  of  life,  which 
was  possessed  by  Dante,  though  in  the  form  of 
the    mediaeval    philosophy    of    history.     And 
since    historicity    is   both    political    and    social 
ideality,   Shakespeare   must  have  been   and   is 
wanting,  as  has  been  said,  in  true  political  faith 
and  passion.     He  has  however  been  credited 
with  this  by  publicists  and  political  polemists 
like  Gervinus,  who  have  desired  to  count  so 
great  a  name  among  their  number,  have  imag- 
ined him  possessed  with  the  passion  for  it  and 
even  believed  that  it  was  crowned  in  him  with 
doctrinal  wisdom. 

It  is  difficult  to  decide  by  what  ways  and  . 


SENTIMENT 


157 


means  these  presuppositions  were  formed  in 
his  inmost  soul,  for  with  this  question  we  re- 
enter the  biographical  problem  as  to  his  educa- 
tion, the  company  he  kept,  his  reading,  his  ex- 
periences; and  upon  all  these  subjects  little  or 
no  exact  information  is  available.  Did  he  ob- 
serve the  fervour  of  life  which  prevailed  in  the 
England  of  his  day  with  sympathetic  soul  and 
vigilant  eye?  Did  he  lend  an  ear  to  discus- 
sions upon  theological  and  metaphysical  ques- 
tions and  carry  away  from  them  a  sense  of  their 
emptiness?  Did  he  frequent  the  youth  of  the 
universities,  which  just  at  that  time  gave  sev- 
eral university  wits  to  literature  and  to  the 
drama?  Did  he  read  the  Laus  Stiihitiae  of 
Erasmus,  moral  and  religious  dialogues  and 
treatises,  the  English  humanists,  the  Platonic- 
ians,  the  ancient  and  modern  historians,  as  he 
certainly  read  Montaigne  at  a  later  date? 
Did  he  read  Machiavelli  and  the  other  political 
writers  of  Italy,  and  those  who  had  begun  to 
sketch  the  doctrine  of  the  temperament  and 
the  passions,  such  as  Huarte  and  Charron,  did 
he  know  Bruno,  or  had  he  heard  of  him  and 
of  his  doctrines?  Or  did  the  influence  of  these 
men  and  books  reach  him  by  various  indirect 
"  paths,  at  second  or  third  hand,  through  con- 


158 


SENTIMENT 


versation,  or  as  by  a  figure  of  speech  we  say, 
from  his  environment?  And  what  part  of 
those  doubts,  negations  and  beliefs  of  his,  was 
due  to  his  vivacity  and  certainty  of  in- 
tuition, or  to  his  own  continuous  and  steady 
rumination  in  himself,  rather  than  to  the 
course  of  his  studies?  But  even  if  we  pos- 
sessed abundant  notes  on  this  subject,  we 
should  still  remain  without  much  information, 
because  the  processes  of  the  formation  of  the 
individual  escape  for  the  most  part  the  ob- 
servation of  others  and  frequently  even  the 
memory  of  him  in  whom  they  have  actually  oc- 
curred, and  the  facility  with  which  they  are 
forgotten  proves  that  what  is  really  important 
to  preserve,  is  not  these,  but  their  result. 

And  what  is  here  of  importance  is  the  rela- 
tion of  these  mental  presuppositions  with  the 
life  of  the  time,  with  the  general  culture  of  the 
period,  with  the  historical  phase  through 
which  the  human  spirit  was  then  passing.  In 
these  respects,  Shakespeare  was  truly,  as  he 
has  appeared  to  those  who  have  best  under- 
stood him,  a  man  of  the  Renaissance,  of  that 
age,  which,  with  its  navigation,  its  commerce, 
its  philosophies,  its  religious  strifes,  its  natural 
science,  its  poems,  its  pictures,  its  statues,  its 


SENTIMENT 


159 


graceful  architecture,  had  set  earthly  life  in 
full  relief,  and  no  longer  permitted  it  to  lose 
its  colours,  become  pallid  and  dissolve  in  the 
rays  of  another  world  external  to  it,  as  had 
happened  through  the  long  period  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages.  But  Shakespeare  did  not  belong  to 
the  pleasure-seeking,  joyous  and  pagan  Renais- 
sance, which  is  but  a  small  aspect  of  the  great 
movement,  but  rather  to  that  side  of  it  which 
was  animated  with  new  wants,  with  new  reli- 
gious tendencies,  with  the  spirit  of  new  philo- 
sophical research,  full  of  doubts,  permeated 
with  flashes  from  the  future.  These  flashes, 
which  appeared  only  in  the  great  thinkers,  who 
were  not  yet  able  to  arrest  them  and  make  of 
them  distributors  of  a  calm  and  equable  light, 
were  also  irreducible  to  a  radiant  centre  in  its 
greatest  poet,  in  whom  philosophy  served  as  a 
presupposition  and  did  not  form  the  essence 
of  his  mental  life.  It  is  therefore  vain  to  seek 
in  Shakespeare  for  what  neither  Bruno  nor 
Campanella  attained,  nor  even  Descartes  and 
Spinoza  at  a  later  date,  namely  the  historical 
concept,  of  which  we  have  already  spoken,  and 
it  is  also  vain  to  talk  of  his  Spinozistic  or  Shel- 
lingian  pantheism. 

Shakespeare    nevertheless    has    assumed    in 


f[ 


158 


SENTIMENT 


SENTIMENT 


159 


I 


m.  . 


.1 


•  } 


versation,  or  as  by  a  figure  of  speech  we  say, 
from  his  environment?  And  what  part  of 
those  doubts,  negations  and  beliefs  of  his,  was 
due  to  his  vivacity  and  certainty  of  in- 
tuition, or  to  his  own  continuous  and  steady 
rumination  in  himself,  rather  than  to  the 
course  of  his  studies?  But  even  if  we  pos- 
sessed abundant  notes  oji  this  subject,  we 
should  still  remain  without  much  information, 
because  the  processes  of  the  formation  of  the 
individual  escape  for  the  most  part  the  ob- 
servation of  others  and  frequently  even  the 
memory  of  him  in  whom  they  have  actually  oc- 
curred, and  the  facility  with  which  they  are 
forgotten  proves  that  what  is  really  important 
to  preserve,  is  not  these,  but  their  result. 

And  what  is  here  of  importance  is  the  rela- 
tion of  these  mental  presuppositions  with  the 
life  of  the  time,  with  the  general  culture  of  the 
period,  with  the  historical  phase  through 
which  the  human  spirit  was  then  passing.  In 
these  respects,  Shakespeare  was  truly,  as  he 
has  appeared  to  those  who  have  best  under- 
stood him,  a  man  of  the  Renaissance,  of  that 
age,  which,  with  its  navigation,  its  commerce, 
its  philosophies,  its  religious  strifes,  its  natural 
science,  its  poems,  its  pictures,  its  statues,  its 


graceful  architecture,  had  set  earthly  life  in 
full  relief,  and  no  longer  permitted  it  to  lose 
its  colours,  become  pallid  and  dissolve  in  the 
rays  of  another  world  external  to  it,  as  had 
happened  through  the  long  period  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages.  But  Shakespeare  did  not  belong  to 
the  pleasure-seeking,  joyous  and  pagan  Renais- 
sance, which  is  but  a  small  aspect  of  the  great 
movement,  but  rather  to  that  side  of  it  which 
was  animated  with  new  wants,  with  new  reli- 
gious tendencies,  with  the  spirit  of  new  philo- 
sophical research,  full  of  doubts,  permeated 
with  flashes  from  the  future.  These  flashes, 
which  appeared  only  in  the  great  thinkers,  who 
were  not  yet  able  to  arrest  them  and  make  of 
them  distributors  of  a  calm  and  equable  light, 
were  also  irreducible  to  a  radiant  centre  in  its 
greatest  poet,  in  whom  philosophy  served  as  a 
presupposition  and  did  not  form  the  essence 
of  his  mental  life.  It  is  therefore  vain  to  seek 
in  Shakespeare  for  what  neither  Bruno  nor 
Campanella  attained,  nor  even  Descartes  and 
Spinoza  at  a  later  date,  namely  the  historical 
concept,  of  which  we  have  already  spoken,  and 
it  is  also  vain  to  talk  of  his  Spinozistic  or  Shel- 
lingian  pantheism. 

Shakespeare    nevertheless    has    assumed    in 


■t 


i6o 


SENTIMENT 


the  past  and  sometimes  assumes  even  in  our 
eyes,  the  appearance  of  a  philosopher  and  of 
a  master,  or  a  precursor  of  the  loftiest  truths, 
which  have  since  come  to  light.     It  is  a  fact 
that  modern  idealistic  and  historical  philoso- 
phy has  not  experienced  equal   attraction   to- 
wards any  other  poet,  recognising  in  him  the 
soul  of  a  brother.     How,  can  this  be?     The 
answer  is  contained  in  what  we  have  been  not- 
ing   and    establishing.     Shakespeare^s    mental 
presuppositions,    which    rejected    the    Middle 
Ages  and  were  on  a  level  with  the  new  times,' 
seeking  and  failing  to  find  unity  and  harmony 
and  above  all  that  vigorous  feeling  of  his  for 
the  cosmic  strifes,  breaking  out  from  them  and 
rising  to  the  sphere  of  poetry,  seems  to  offer 
material  already  prepared  and  to  some  extent 
also  shaped  to  the  dialectician,  for  he  some- 
times almost  suggests  the  right  word  to  the 
moralist,  the  politician,  the  philosopher  of  art. 
He  might  also  be  called  a  **  pre-philosopher." 
owing  to  this  power  of  stimulation  that  he  pos- 
sesses,   and   this   appellation   would   have    the 
further  advantage  of  making  it  well  understood 
that  there  is  no  use  attempting  to  make  of  him 
a  philosopher.     And  precisely  because  it  is  im- 
possible to  extract  a  definite  and  particular  doc- 


SENTIMENT 


i6i 


trine  from  his  pre-philosophy  and  poetry,  can 
many  of  different  kinds  be  extracted,  accord- 
ing to  diversity  of  minds  and  the  progress  of 
the  times.  Hence,  if  some  have  maintained 
that  the  logical  complement  of  that  poetical 
vision  is  speculative  idealism,  dialectic,  anti-as- 
cetic morality,  romantic  aesthetic,  realistic  pol- 
itics, the  historical  conception  of  the  real,  and 
have  maintained  this  with  reason,  basing  their 
views  upon  doctrines  which  they  believed  to 
be  true,  and  have  justly  thought  that  the  logi- 
cal complement  of  beauty  is  truth;  others  have 
possibly  arrived  at  pessimistic  conclusions  from 
that  vision  and  assertion  of  conflicts;  and  oth- 
ers have  striven  and  are  striving  to  effect  the 
restauration  of  some  of  the  presumptions  that 
are  negated  or  are  absent,  such  as  faith  in  an- 
other world  and  in  divine  and  transcendental 
justice.  This  latter  position  has  been  main- 
tained as  well  as  it  possibly  could  have  been, 
with  the  aid  of  much  research,  by  an  Italian 
mind  of  the  first  order,  Manzoni,  who  was  both 
a  severe  Catholic  and  a  fervent  Shakespearean. 
He  found  in  the  profundity  of  Shakespeare  the 
profoundest  morality,  and  remarked  that  **  the 
representation  of  profound  sorrows  and  inde- 
terminate terrors,"  as  given  by  Shakespeare, 


•    i 


1 62 


SENTIMENT 


"  comes  near  to  virtue,"  because  "  when  man 
comes  inquisitively  forth  from  the  beaten 
path  of  things  known  and  from  the  accidents 
that  he  is  accustomed  to  combat,  and  finds  him- 
self in  the  infinite  region  of  possible  evils,  he 
feels  his  weakness,  the  cheerful  ideas  of  de- 
fence and  of  vigour  abandon  him.  Then  he 
thinks  that  virtue  only,  a  clear  conscience,  and 
the  help  of  God  alone  can  be  of  some  succour 
to  his  mind  in  that  condition."  And  thus  he 
concluded  with  characteristic  certainty:  "  Let 
everyone  look  into  himself  after  reading  a 
tragedy  of  Shakespeare,  and  observe  whether 
he  does  not  experience  a  similar  emotion  in  his 
own  soul." 


CHAPTER  IX 

MOTIVES  AND  DEVELOPMENT  OF 
SHAKESPEARE'S  POETRY 


l|. 


The  "  Comedy  of  Love  " 

What  we  have  hitherto  described  as  the 
sentiment  of  Shakespeare  corresponds  to  the 
Shakespeare  carven  in  the  general  conscious- 
ness, that  which  is  Shakespeare  in  an  eminent 
degree,  almost,  we  might  say,  a  symbol  of  his 
greater  self,  the  poet  of  the  great  tragedies 
{Othello,  Macbeth,  King  Lear,  Julius  Caesar, 
Antony  and  Cleopatra,  Hamlet)  and  of  the 
tragic  portions  of  those  that  are  less  intense 
and  less  perfect.  But  the  work  that  bears  his 
name  is  far  more  varied  in  tones  and  person- 
alities and  in  order  to  prepare  the  way  for  the 
passage  of  more  particular  characteristics,  we 
must  distinguish  (and  here  the  students  of 
Shakespeare    have    always    been    industrious) 

the    various    configurations    and    degrees,    or 

X63 


104 


COMEDY   OF   LOVE 


+ 


I('^    -i 


sources  of  inspiration  of  the  poet,  and  make  of 
them  groups,  which  may  then  be  arranged  in  a 
series  of  relations,  an  ideal  succession. 

On  casting  the  eye  over  the  rich  extent  of 
his  works,  the  attention  is  at  once  drawn  to 
certain  of  them,  whose  fresh,  smiling  colours 
indicate  that  their  principal  and  proper  theme 
is  love.     Not  the  love  that  becomes  joined  to 
y      other  graver  passions  and  unified  with  them, 
forms  a  complex,  as  in  the  Othello,  or  in  An- 
tony   and    Cleopatra,    thus    acquiring    a    pro- 
\       foundly  tragic  quality,  but  love  and  love  alone, 
love  considered  in  itself.     These  passions  then 
are  to  be  found  rather  in  the  comedy  of  love 
than  in  the  tragedies  or  dramas:  in  love,  re- 
garded certainly  with  affectionate  sympathy,  but 
also  with  curiosity,  instinct  with  softness  and 
tenderness,  indeed,  one  might  almost  say,  with 
the  superiority  of  an  expert  mind  and  thus  with 
delicate  irony.     The  mind  that    accompanies 
this  amorous  heart,  observes  the  caprices  and 
illusions,    recognising    their    inevitability    and 
their  necessity,  but  yet  knowing  them  for  what 
they  are,  imaginings,  however  irresistible  and 
delicious  they  be,  caprices,  though  noble  and 
beautiful,  weaknesses,  deserving  of  indulgence 
and  of  gentle  treatment,  because  human,  and 


m 


COMEDY   OF   LOVE 


165 


belonging  to  man  as  he  passes  through  the 
happy  and  stormy  season  of  youth.  This 
mode  of  experiencing  love  is  something  that 
manifests  itself  only  episodically  in  the  Greek, 
Latin  and  medieval  poets.  With  them  we 
find  love  represented,  sometimes  as  a  pleas- 
ant, a  sensual  strife,  or  as  a  furious  blind  pas- 
sion, fearless  of  death,  or  as  a  spiritual  cult  of 
lofty  and  superhuman  beauty.  Sometimes  in- 
deed, as  in  the  comedy  of  Menander  and  its 
long  suite  of  descendants  and  posterity  among 
the  Latins  and  the  Italians,  it  gives  rise  to  a 
general  and  rather  cold  psychological  simplifi- 
cation, in  which  love  is  not  found  to  differ 
much  from  any  other  passion  or  desire,  such 
as  avarice,  courage  or  greed.  In  the  form 
we  have  described,  it  belongs  entirely  to  the 
mode  of  feeling  of  the  Renaissance,  to  one  of 
those  attitudes  which  the  antiascetic  and  realis- 
tic view  of  human  affairs  developed  and  be- 
queathed in  a  perfected  form  to  modern  times. 
Here  we  must  again  note  the  similarity  be- 
tween Shakespeare  and  Ariosto,  for  both 
painted  the  eternal  comedy  of  love  in  the  same 
manner.  • 

That  love  is  sincere,  yet  deceives  and  is  de- 
ceived; it  imagines  itself  to  be  firm  and  con- 


i66 


COMEDY  OF  LOVE 


COMEDY  OF  LOVE 


167 


^ 


1 


m 


w 


|t!"^ 


stant,  and  turns  out  to  be  fragile  and  fleeting; 
it  claims  to  be  founded  upon  a  dispassionate 
judgment    of    the    mind    and    upon    luminous 
moral  choice,  whereas,  on  the  contrary,  it  is 
guided  in  an  altogether  irrational  manner  by 
impressions  and  fancies,  fluctuating  with  these. 
Sometimes,  too,  it  is  represented  as  repugnance 
and  aversion,  whereas  it  is  really  irresistible  at- 
traction; it  is  content  to  suppress  itself  with  de- 
liberate humbleness  before  works  and  thoughts 
that  are  more  austere,  but  reappears  on  the 
first  occasion,  more  vehement,   tenacious  and 
indomitable  than  ever. 

"  In  his  men,  as  in  his  women,"  says  Heine, 
with  his  accustomed  grace,  when  talking  of  the 
Shakespearean  comedy,  "  passion  is  altogether 
without  that  fearful  seriousness,  that  fatalistic 
necessity,  which  it  manifests  in  the  tragedies. 
Love  does  in  truth  wear  there,  as  ever,  a  band- 
age over  his  eyes  and  bears  a  quiver  full  of 
darts.     But    these    darts    are    rather   winged 
than  sharpened  to  a  deadly  point,  and  the  little 
god  sometimes  stealthily  and  maliciously  peeps 
out,  removing  the  bandage.     Their  flames  too 
rather  shine  than  burn;  but  they  are  always 
flames,   and  in  the  comedies  of  Shakespeare, 
love  always  preserves  the  character  of  truth." 


Of  truth,  and  for  this  reason,  none  of  these 
comedies  descends  altogether  to  the  level  of 
farce,  not  even  those  that  most  nearly  approach 
it,  such  as  Lovers  Labour  Lost,  The  Taming 
of  the  Shrew,  nor  even  The  Comedy  of  Errors, 
where  some  element  of  human  truth  always 
leads  us  back  to  the  seriousness  of  art.  Still 
less  is  there  satire  there,  intellectual  and  angu- 
lar satire,  constructor  of  types,  exaggerates  in 
the  interest  of  polemic;  always  we  find  there 
suavity  of  outline,  the  soft  veil  of  poetry. 
Even  in  the  most  feeble,  as  The  Two  Gentle- 
men of  Verona,  we  enjoy  the  fresh  love  scenes, 
mingled  with  the  saltatory  course  of  the  narra- 
tive, the  abundant  dialogues,  the  misunder- 
standings and  the  verbal  witticisms.  Even  in 
those  that  are  developed  in  a  somewhat  me- 
chanical and  superficial  manner,  which  we 
should  now  describe  as  being  a  these,  there  is 
vivacity,  joking,  festivity,  and  an  eloquence  so 
flowery  (for  instance  in  the  scene  where  Biron 
defends  the  rights  of  youth  and  of  love)  that 
it  has  almost  lyrical  quality. 

In  this  last  comedy  there  is  a  king  and  his 
three  gentlemen,  who,  in  order  to  devote  them- 
selves to  study  and  to  attain  to  fame  and  im- 
mortality, have  sworn  to  one  another  that  they 


1 68 


COMEDY   OF  LOVE 


Will  not  see  a  woman  for  three  years.     All 
three  of  them  fail  of  this  and  fall  in  love  al- 
most as  soon  as  the  Princess  of  France  arrives 
with    her    three   ladies.     These   ladies,   when 
they  have  received  the  most  solemn  declara- 
tions of  love  from  the  four  of  them,  each  one 
faithless  to  himself,  punish  them  in  their  turn 
for  their  levity  by  condemning  them  to  wait  for 
a  certain  period,  before  receiving  a  reply  to 
their  offers.     Thus   it  was  that  Angelica,   in 
the   Italian  poems  of    chivalry,   succeeded  in 
setting  the  hearts  of  the  most  obdurate  cav- 
aliers aflame  with  love,  even  of  those  who  held 
severest   discourse.     She   made    them   all   fol- 
low the  queen  of  love,  whom  no  mortal  could 
resist. 

In  the  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  Petruchio  the 
male,  who  knows  what  he  wants  and  wants  his 
own  ease  and  comfort,  hits  immediately  upon 
the  right  line  of  conduct,  a  line  that  is,  however, 
altogether  spiritual,  because  based  upon  psy- 
chological knowledge  and  volitional  resolve. 
He  espouses  the  terrible  Catherine  and  reduces 
her  to  lamblike  obedience,  afraid  of  her  hus- 
band, no  longer  able  not  only  to  say,  but  even 
to  think,  anything  save  what  he  has  forced  her 


COMEDY   OF   LOVE 


169 


to  think.  Yet  who  can  tell  that  she  does  not 
love  him  who  maltreats  and  tyrannises  over 
her? 

In  Twelfth  Night,  we  behold  the  Duke 
vainly  sighing  for  the  beautiful  widow  Olivia, 
and  the  love  that  suddenly  blossoms  in  her  for 
the  intermediary  sent  by  the  Duke,  a  woman 
dressed  as  a  man ;  while  the  steward  Malvolio, 
the  Puritan,  the  pedantic  Malvolio,  is  urged  on 
to  the  most  ridiculous  acts,  by  hope  and  the 
illusion  of  being  loved.  Finally,  fortune  in 
this  case  making  the  single  beloved  into  two, 
a  man  and  a  woman  (in  a  more  modest  but 
identical  manner  to  that  in  the  adventure  of 
Fiordispina  with  Bradamante  and  Ricciar- 
detto)  brings  about  a  happy  ending  for  all. 

In  AlVs  Well,  the  Countess  of  Roussillon, 
receives  the  discovery  that  poor  Helena,  the 
orphan  child  of  the  family  doctor,  is  in  love 
with  her  son,  rather  with  benevolence  than 
with  hostility  and  reflects : 

"  Even  so  it  was  with  me  when  I  was  young: 
If  we  are  nature's,  these  are  ours ;  .  .  . 
By  our  remembrance  of  days  foregone, 
Such  were  our  faults  though  then  we  thought  them 


>     • 


.  i 


none. 


i> 


I70 


COMEDY   OF   LOVE 


if 


'v.'/ 


mt)f- 


The  amorous  couples  of  princesses,  exiles  or 
fugitives,  and  of  exile  and  fugitive  gentlemen, 
wander  about  the  forest  of  Arden,  in  Js  You 
Like  It,  alternating  and  mingling  with  the 
couples  of  rustic  lovers. 

Perhaps  the  best  example  of  this  **  comedy 
of  love  "  is  the  fencing  of  the  two  unconscious 
lovers,  Beatrice  and  Benedick,  in  Much  Ado 
About  Nothing,     This  young  couple  seek  one 
another  only  to  measure  weapons,  to  sneer  and 
to  fence,  with  the  fine-pointed  swords  of  biting 
jest  and  disdain,  they  believe  themselves  to  be 
antipathetic,   disbelieve   one   another;   yet  the 
simplest  little  intrigue  of  their  friends  suffices 
to  reveal  each  to  each  as  whole-heartedly  lov- 
ing and  desiring  the  adversary.     The  union  of 
the  two  is  sealed,  when  they  find  themselves 
united  in  the  same  sentiment  to  defend  their 
friend,  who  has  been  calumniated  and  rejected, 
thus  discovering  that  their  perpetual  following 
of  one  another  to  engage  in  strife,  had  not 
concealed  the  struggle,,  which  implies  affinity 
of  sex,  but  the  spiritual  affinity  of  two  generous 
hearts. 

Benedick.  And,  I  pray  thee  now,  tell  me  for  which 
of  my  bad  faults  didst  thou  first  fall  in  love  with 
me?  .  .  • 


■! 


COMEDY  OF  LOVE 


171 


And  the  other,  speaking  with  tenderness  and 
ceasing  to  carry  on  the  pinpricking : 

"  Suffer  love, —  a  good  epithet ! 

I  do  suffer  love  indeed,  for  I  love  thee  against  my  will." 

A  light  touch  permeates  the  treatment  of 
these  characters  and  suffices  to  animate  them 
and  make  them  act.  The  dramatic  or  indeed 
tragic  situations,  which  at  times  arise,  are 
treated  as  it  were  with  the  implied  conscious- 
ness of  their  slight  gravity  and  danger,  which 
shall  soon  be  evident  and  dispel  all  the  appre- 
hensions of  those  who  doubt.  They  some- 
times consist  of  nothing  but  an  external  action 
or  occurrence,  suited  to  the  theatre,  and  more 
frequently  a  decorative  background.  Paral- 
lelism of  personages  and  symmetry  of  events 
also  abound  in  these  plays,  suitable  to  the 
merry  teaching  that  pervades  them. 

The  quintessence  of  all  these  comedies  (as 
we  may  say  of  Hamlet  in  respect  of  the  great 
tragedies)  is  the  Midsummer  Night* s  Dream, 
Here  the  quick  ardours,  the  inconstancies,  the 
caprices,  the  illusions,  the  delusions,  every  sort 
of  love  folly,  become  embodied  and  weave  a 
world  of  their  own,  as  living  and  as  real  as 
that  of  those  who  are  visited  by  these  affec- 


172 


COMEDY   OF   LOVE 


\J:\^ 


If 


M 


tions,  tormented  or  rendered  ecstatic,  raised  on 
high  or  hurled  downward  by  them,  in  such  a 
way  that  everything  is  equally  real  or  equally 
fantastic,  as  you  may  please  to  call  it.     The 
sense  of  dream,  of  a  dream-reality,  persists  and 
prevents  our  feeling  the  chilly  sense  of  allegory 
or  of  apology.     The  little  drama  seems  born 
of  a  smile,  so  delicate,  refined  and  ethereal  it 
is.     Graceful  and  delicate  to  a  degree  is  also 
the  setting  of  the  dream,  the  celebration  of 
the   wedding  of  Theseus  and  Hippolyta  and 
the  theatrical  performance  of  the  artisans,  for 
these  are  not  merely  ridiculous  in  their  clumsi- 
ness;  they  are   also   childlike  and  ingenuous, 
arousing  a  sort  of  gay  pity :  we  do  not  laugh  at 
them:  we  smile.     Oberon  and  Titania  are  at 
variance  owing  to  reciprocal  wrongs,  and  trou- 
ble has  arisen  in  the  world.     Puck  obeys  the 
command  of  Oberon  and  sets  to  work,  teasing, 
punishing  and  correcting.     But  in  performing 
this  duty  of  punishing  and  correcting,  he  too 
makes  mistakes,  and  the  love  intrigue  becomes 
more  complicated  and  active.     Here  we  find 
a  resemblance  to  the  rapid  passage  into  oppo- 
site states  and  the  strange  complications  that 
arose  in  Italian  knightly  romances,  as  the  re- 
sult of  drinking  the  water  from  one  of  two 


COMEDY   OF   LOVE 


173 


opposite  fountains  whereof  one  filled  the  heart 
with  amorous  desires,   the  other  turned  first 
ardours  to  ice.     In  Titania,  who  embraces  the 
Ass's  head  and  raves  about  him,  caressing  and 
looking  upon  him  as  a  graceful  and  gracious 
creature,  the  comedy  creates  a  symbol  so  ample 
and  so  efficacious  as  rightly  to  have  become 
proverbial.     Puck  meanwhile,     astonished    at 
the  effect  upon  men  of  the  subtle  intoxication 
that  he  has  been  himself  distributing,  exclaims 
in  his  surprise  "  Lord,  what  fools  these  mor- 
tals  be! '';  and  Lysander,  one  of  the  madmen 
who  are  constantly  passing  from  one  love  to 
another,    from   one   thing  to   its   opposite,    is 
nevertheless  perfectly  convinced  that 

"  The  will  of  man  is  by  his  reason  sway'd  ; 
And  reason  says  you  are  the  worthier  maid." 

Yet  the  individual  reality  of  the  figures  appears 
through  this  exquisite  version  of  the  eternal 
comedy,  as  though  to  remind  us  that  they 
really  belong  to  life.  Helena  follows  the  man 
she  loves,  but  who  does  not  love  her,  like  a 
lapdog,  which,  the  more  it  is  beaten,  the  more 
It  runs  round  and  round  its  master;  she  trem- 
bles at  the  outbreak  of  furious  jealousy  in  her 
little  friend  Hermia,  who  threatens  to  put  out 


174 


COMEDY   OF   LOVE 


her  eyes,  believing  her  to  be  capable  of  it, 
when  she  remembers  the  time  when  they  were 
at  school  together: 

**  O,  when  she's  angry,  she  is  keen  and  shrewd! 
She  was  a  vixen  when  she  went  to  school ; 
And  though  she  be  but  little  she  is  fierce." 

When  we  read  Romeo  and  Juliet,  after  the 
Dream,  we  seem  not  to  have  left  that  poetical 
environment,  to  which  Mercutio  expressly  re- 
calls us,  with  his  fantastic  embroidery  around 
Queen  Mab,  above  all,  when  we  consider  the 
style,  the  rhyming  and  the  general  physiognomy 
of  the  little  story.  All  have  inclined  to  suave 
and  gentle  speech  and  metaphor,  when  speaking 
of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  For  Schlegel  it  was 
scented  with  **  the  perfumes  of  springtide, 
the  song  of  the  nightingales,  the  freshness  of 
a  newly  budded  rose."  Hegel  too  found 
himself  face  to  face  with  that  rose:  "sweet 
rose  in  the  valley  of  the  world,  torn  asunder 
by  the  rude  tempest  and  the  hurricane." 
Coleridge  too  speaks  of  that  sense  of  spring: 
**  The  spring  with  its  odours,  its  flowers 
and  its  fleetingness."  All  have  looked  upon 
It  as  the  poem  of  youthful  love  and  have 
remarked  that  the  play  reaches  its  acme  in 


COMEDY   OF  LOVE  175 

the  two  love  scenes  in  the  garden  at  night, 
and  in  the  departure  after  the  nuptial  night, 
in  which  some  have  seen  the  renovation  of 
the  traditional  forms  .of  love  poetry,  "  the 
epithalamium,"  "  the  dawn."  This  play  is  not 
only  closely  connected  with  the  Dream,  but 
also  with  the  other  comedies  of  love;  Romeo 
passes  there  with  like  rapidity,  indeed  sudden- 
ness  to  the  personages  of  those  comedies  from 
love  of  Rosalind  to  love  of  Juliet.  At  the 
first  sight  of  Juliet  he  is  conquered  and  believes 
that  he  then  loves  for  the  first  time : 

"  Did  my  heart  love  till  now  ?     Forswear  it,  sight ! 
For  I  ne'er  saw  true  beauty  till  this  night." 

Saintly  Friar  Laurence,  a  mixture  of  aston- 
ishment, of  being  scandalised  and  of  good 
nature,  sometimes  almost  plays  there  the  part 
of  Puck.  When  he  learns  that  Romeo  no 
longer  loves  Rosalind,  about  whom  he  had 
been  so  crazy;  he  says: 

"So  soon  forsaken!     Young  men's  love  there  lies 
Not  truly  in  their  hearts,  but  in  their  eyes. 

Jesu  Maria! " 

When  Juliet  enters  her  cell,  the  friar  remarks 
with   admiration  her   lightsome   tread,   which 


176 


COMEDY   OF   LOVE 


i 


*l 


will  never  wear  out  the  pavement,  and  reflects 
that  a  lover  "  may  bestride  the  gossamer  that 
idles  in  the  wanton  summer  air,  and  yet  not 
fall;  so  light  is  vanity."  Is  it  tragedy  or 
comedy?  It  is  another  situation  of  the  eternal 
comedy:  the  love  of  two  young  people,  almost 
children,  which  surmounts  all  social  obstacles, 
including  the  hardest  of  all,  family  hatred  and 
party  feud,  and  goes  on  its  way,  careless  of 
these  obstacles  and  as  though  they  had  no  Im- 
portance for  their  hearts,  no  existence  in  real- 
ity. And  in  truth  those  obstacles  seem  to 
yield  before  their  advance,  or  rather  their 
winged  flight,  like  soft  clouds.  Certainly, 
those  obstacles  reappear  solidly  enough  later 
on,  asserting  their  value  and  taking  their  re- 
venge, so  much  so,  that  the  young  lovers  are 
obliged  to  separate  and  Romeo  goes  into  exile. 
But  it  will  be  only  for  a  little  while,  for  Friar 
Laurence  has  promised  to  interest  himself  in 
their  affairs,  to  obtain  the  pardon  of  the  Prince, 
to  reconcile  the  parents  and  the  other  relations, 
and  to  obtain  sanction  for  their  secret  mar- 
riage. And  if  nothing  of  all  this  happens,  if 
the  subtle  previsions  and  the  acuteness  of  Friar 
Laurence  turn  out  to  be  fallacious,  if  a  se- 
quence of  misunderstandings  makes  them  lose 


COMEDY   OF   LOVE 


r    I 


177 


their  way  and  take  a  wrong  turning,  if  the  two 
young  lovers  perish,  it  is  the  result  of  chance, 
and  the  sentiment  that  arises  from  it  is  one  of 
compassion,  of  compassion  not  divorced  from 
envy,  a  sorrow,  which,  as  Hegel  said,  is  **  a  do- 
lorous reconciliation  and  an  unhappy  beatitude 
in  unhappiness.''  This  too  then  is  tragedy,  but 
tragedy  in  a  minor  key,  what  one  might  call  the 
tragedy  of  a  comedy. 

"  A  greater  power  than  we  can  contradict 
Hath  thwarted  our  intents." 

But  that  power  is  not  the  mysterious  power, 
something  between  destiny  and  providence  and 
moral  necessity,  which  weighs  upon  the  great 
tragedies;  rather  is  it  Chance,  which  Friar 
Laurence  hardly  succeeds  in  dignifying  with 
the  words  of  religion: 

"  So  hath  willed  it  God." 

There  is  a  metaphor  which  is  repeated  in 
the  terrible  accents  of  Kin^  Lear,  and  which  is 
itself  able  to  reveal  the  difference  between  the 
two  tragedies.  Romeo,  whose  life  has  been 
spared  and  who  has  been  sent  into  exile,  thinks 
that  what  has  been  done  for  him,  is  torture 
rather  than  pardon,  because  Paradise  is  only 
where  Juliet  lives: 


178  COMEDY   OF   LOVE 

"  And  every  cat,  and  dog, 
And  little  mouse,  every  unworthy  thing, 
Live  here  in  heaven,  and  may  look  on  her; 
But  Romeo  may  not !  " 

Juliet,  who  IS  preparing  to  drink  the  medi- 
cine that  may  be  poisonous,  is  the  shy  and  timid 
young  girl  of  Leopardi's  Amove  e  Morte,  who 
**  feels  her  hair  stand  on  end  at  the  very  name 
of  death,"  but  when  she  has  fallen  in  love 
"  dares  meditate  at  length  on  steel  and  on 
poison."  The  very  sepulchral  cave  shines,  and 
Romeo  after  having  stabbed  Paris  at  the  feet 
of  Juliet,  whom  he  believes  to  be  dead,  feels 
that  he  is  a  companion  in  misfortune  and  wishes 
to  bury  him  there  "  In  a  triumphant  grave." 

"  A  grave,  O  no,  a  lantern,  slaughtered  youth, 
For  here  lies  Juliet,  and  her  beauty  makes 
This  vault  a  feasting  presence  full  of  light." 

Such  words  of  admiration  for  love  and  for  the 
youthful  lovers  are  found  in  other  poets,  for 
instance  in  Dante's  words  for  Beatrice; 
"  Death,  I  hold  thee  very  sweet :  Thou  must 
ever  after  be  a  noble  thing,  since  thou  hast 
been  in  my  lady." 

If  we  find  love  in  rather  piteous  guise  in 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  comedy  reappears    in    the 


(P 


COMEDY   OF   LOVE 


179 


wise  Portia,  bound  to  the  promise  of  allowing 
her  fate  to  be  decided  by  means  of  a  guess,  be- 
cause although  she  submits  to  selection  by 
chance,  she  has  already  chosen  in  her  heart,  not 
among  the  dukes  and  princes  of  the  various 
nationalities,  indeed  of  various  continents,  who 
are  competing  for  her  hand,  but  a  youthful 
Venetian,  something  between  a  student  and  a 
soldier,  half  an  adventurer,  but  courteous  and 
pleasing  in  address,  who  has  contrived  to 
please,  not  only  mistress,  but  maid,  which 
shows,  in  this  agreement  of  feminine  choice, 
where  feminine  taste  really  lies.  **  By  my 
troth,  Nerissa,  my  little  body  is  a-weary  of 
this  great  world"  (she  sighs,  with  gentle  co- 
quettishness  toward  herself),  perhaps  with 
that  languor,  which  is  the  desire  of  loving  and 
of  being  loved,  the  budding  of  love ;  weary,  as 
those  amorous  souls  feel,  weary,  who  vibrate 
with  an  exquisite  sensibility.  And  indeed  she 
is  most  sensible  to  music  and  to  the  spectacles 
of  nature ;  and  the  music  that  she  hears  in  the 
night  causes  her  to  stay  and  listen  to  it,  and 
it  seems  to  her  far  sweeter  than  when  heard 
in  the  daytime.  Nocturnal  moonlight  gives 
her  the  impression  of  a  day  that  is  ailing,  of  a 
rather  pallid  day  when  the  sun  is  hidden. 


ti 


K'' 


I 


i8o 


COMEDY   OF   LOVE 


In  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  there  is  also  the 
couple  of  Jessica  and  Lorenzo,  those  two  lov- 
ers who  do  not  feel  the  want  of  moral  idealisa- 
tion, nor,  one  would  be  inclined  to  say,  any 
solicitude  for  the  esteem  of  others.  The  man 
steals  without  scruple  from  the  old  Jew  his 
daughter  and  his  jewels,  and  the  girl  has  not 
even  a  slight  feeling  of  pity  for  the  father,  both 
alike  plunged  in  the  happy  egotism  of  their 
pleasure.  Jessica  is  unperturbed,  sustaining 
and  exchanging  epigrams  with  her  husband  and 
the  salacious  jesting  and  somewhat  insolent  fa- 
miliarity of  the  servant  Lancellotto,  though 
abandoning  herself  all  the  time  to  ecstasy,  a  sen- 
sual ecstasy,  for  she  too  is  sensible  to  music  and 
attains  by  means  of  it  to  a  melancholy  of  the 
only  sort  that  she  is  capable  of  experiencing, 
namely,  the  sensual. 

There  is  malice,  almost  mockery,  though 
tempered  with  other  elements,  in  the  portrayal 
of  these  loves  of  the  daughter  of  Shylock. 
But  in  those  of  Troilus  and  Cressida,  we  meet 
at  once  with  sarcasm,  a  bitter  sarcasm.  The 
same  background,  the  doings  of  the  Trojan 
war,  which  in  other  comedies  has  the  superficial 
charm  of  a  decoration,  is  here  also  a  decora- 


COMEDY   OF   LOVE 


i8i 


tion,  but  treated  with  sarcasm  and  bitterness. 
Thersites  fills  the  part  of  the  cynic  among  the 
Greek  warriors,  in  the  relations  between  Troi- 
lus and  Cressida,  as  does  Pandarus  in  Troy. 
The  hastening  of   the  last  scenes   should  be 
noted,  the  large  amount  of  fighting,  the  tumult: 
the  world  is  dancing  as  in  a  puppet  show,  while 
the  story  of  Troilus  and  Cressida  is  drawing  to 
its  close,  amid  the  imprecations  of  the  nause- 
ated  Troilus    and    the    grotesquely   burlesque 
lamentations    of    Pandarus.     Another    great 
artist  of  the  Renaissance  comes  to  mind,  in  re- 
lation to  this  play:  not  Ariosto,  but  Rabelais. 
The  theme   is   still,   however,   the  comedy  of 
love,  but  a  comedy  bordering  on  the  faunesque, 
the  immoral,  the  baser  instinct,  upon  lust  and 
feminine   faithlessness.     Pandartis  is  ever  the 
go-between;  he  laughs  and  enjoys  himself,  for 
he  is  an  expert  at  this  sort  of  business,  a  bat- 
tle-stained warrior,  as  it  were,  bearing  traces 
of  that  long  amorous  warfare,  if  not  in  his 
soul,   in  his   old  bones;  he   is   the   living  de- 
struction of  love,  of  the  credulous,  sensual  cu- 
pidity of  man  and  of  the  non-credulous,  friv- 
olous vanity  of  woman.     His  too  is  the  ob- 
session  of  love-making:  he   is   unable   to   ex- 


1 82 


COMEDY   OF   LOVE 


I 


rill 


M 


.-•V'' 


tricate  himself  from  it,  taking  an  almost  devil- 
ish delight  in  involving  those  who  have  re- 
course to  him.  Troilus  does  not  displease 
Cressida,  on  the  contrary,  he  pleases  her 
greatly,  yet  she  fences  with  him,  because  she 
is  already  in  full  possession  of  feminine  wis- 
dom and  philosophy.  She  knows  that  women 
are  admired,  sighed  after  and  desired  as 
angels,  while  being  courted,  but  once  they 
have  said  yes,  all  is  over.  She  knows  that 
the  true  pleasure  lies  in  the  doing,  in  the  act 
and  not  in  the  fact,  in  the  becoming,  not  in  the 
become.  She  knows  that  in  yielding,  she  is 
committing  a  folly,  by  breaking  the  law,  which 
is  known  to  her,  but  she  puts  everything  she 
now  undertakes  upon  Pandarus:  **  Well,  uncle, 
what  folly  I  commit,  I  dedicate  to  you."  How 
different  is  her  union  with  her  lover,  to  that 
of  Romeo  and  Juliet!  There  is  an  ironic- 
comic  solemnity  in  the  rite  performed  by  the 
pander  uncle  and  in  the  oaths  of  constancy  and 
loyalty,  which  all  three  of  them  exchange, 
while  the  uncle  intones:  "Say  amen,''  and  the 
two  reply,  "  Amen,"  and  are  then  pushed  into 
the  nuptial  chamber  by  the  profane  priest. 
How  different  too  is  ''  the  dawn,"  their  separa- 
tion in  the  morning ! 


COMEDY   OF   LOVE 


183 


**  But  that  the  busy  day, 

Waked  by  the  lark,  hath  raised  the  ribald  crows 
And  dreaming  night  will  hide  our  joys  no  longer, 
I  would  not  from  thee." 

Whereupon  the  uncle  begins  to  utter  im- 
proper epigrams  and  plays  upon  words,  which 
the  impatient  Cressida  repays,  by  sending  him 
to  the  devil.  Cressida  begins  the  new  intrigue 
with  Diomede,  as  soon  as  she  is  face  to  face 
with  him  alone,  in  spite  of  this  scene  and  the 
numerous  oaths  that  preceded  and  followed  it. 
She  is  perfectly  aware  that  she  is  betraying 
her  love  for  Troilus  and  that  she  has  no  ex- 
cuse for  doing  so.  She  gives  to  Diomede  the 
gift  of  Troilus  and  when  he  asks  her  to  whom 
it  belongs,  she  replies: 

**  Twas  one  that  lov*d  me  better  than  you  will, 
But  now  you  have  it,  take  it." 

Here  we  find  consciousness  of  her  own  fem- 
inine levity,  looked  upon  not  merely  as  a  natu- 
ral force  dragging  her  after  it,  but  almost  as  a 
right,  as  the  exercise  of  a  mission  or  vocation. 
Cressida  can  even  be  sentimental,  as  she 
abandons  herself  to  another! 

"  Troilus  farewell,  one  eye  yet  looks  on  thee  ; 
But  with  my  heart  the  other  eye  doth  see. 
Ah !  poor  our  sex  I  " 


Ff 


5) 


i! 

If 


1; 


1 84 


COMEDY   OF   LOVE 


ti 


m 


Troilus  IS  meanwhile  indignant,  not  from  a 
sense  of  injured  morality,  for  that  sort  of  love 
does  not  admit  of  such  a  thing:  he  is  mad  with 
masculine  jealousy.  "Was  Cressida  here?" 
.  .  .  and  further  on :  "  Nothing  at  all,  unless 
that  they  were  she  .  .  ." 

The  figures  of  Ferdinand  and  Miranda 
bring  us  back  to  love,  youthful  and  pure,  all  the 
more  pure,  because  it  reveals  itself,  not  in  the 
midst  of  a  great  court  or  city,  but  in  a  desert 
island.  The  young  man  comes  there  ship- 
wrecked, cut  off  from  the  world  that  once  was 
his,  born  as  it  were  anew;  the  maiden  has  been 
brought  up  in  solitude.  Yet  her  love  is  awak- 
ened at  first  sight,  in  the  beautiful  phrase  of 
Marlowe,  which  Shakespeare  was  so  fond  of 
quoting:  "Who  ever  loved  that  loved  not  at 
first  sight?"  It  is  love,  law  of  beings  as  of 
things,  which  returns  eternally  new  and  fresh 
as  the  dawn,  making  his  Goddess  appear  to 
the  youth,  her  God  to  the  maiden,  each  to  each 
as  beings  without  their  equal  upon  earth : 


"  I  might  call  him 
A  thing  divine,  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble."     "  Most  sure,  the  goddess, 
On  whom  these  airs  attend,"  says  Ferdinand. 


ROMANCE 


185 


The  choice  is  soon  made,  firm,  resolute  and  de- 
termined. When  Prospero  tells  her  that  there 
are  men  in  the  world,  compared  with  whom, 
the  youth  she  admires  would  seem  a  monster, 
Miranda  replies: 

"  My  affections 
Are  then  most  humble;  I  have  no  ambition 
To  see  a  goodlier  man." 

All  noble  things  that  can  be  imagined  sur- 
round and  elevate  their  loves :  misfortune,  com- 
passion, chaste  desire,  virginal  respect.  These 
things,  though  infinitely  repeated  in  the  world's 
history  seem  new,  as  the  two  live  through 
them,  "  surprised  withal,"  surprised  and  rav- 
ished at  the  mystery,  which  in  them  is  cele- 
brated once  more. 


The  Longing  For  Romance 

Another  motive,  related  to  the  preceding, 
may  be  described  as  the  longing  for  romance, 
but  this  expression  must  be  taken  with  all  due 
limitations. 

Amorous  damsels  don  the  travesty  of  mascu- 
line attire,  in  order  to  follow  their  faithless  or 
cruel  lovers,  to  escape  persecution,  or  to  per- 


i86 


ROMANCE 


«< 


form  wondrous  deeds;  brothers,  or  brothers 
and  sisters,  who  resemble  one  another,  are 
taken  for  one  another,  and  thus  form  a  centre 
for  the  most  curious  adventures;  with  like  ob- 
jects in  view,  princes  travesty  themselves  as 
shepherds ;  gentlemen  are  discovered  in  forests 
with  bandits  and  are  themselves  bandits;  chil- 
dren of  royal  blood,  ignorant  of  their  origin, 
live  like  peasants,  yet  are  moved  by  inclina- 
tions, which  make  them  impatient  of  their 
quiet,  humble  lives,  urging  them  on  to  great 
adventures ;  sovereigns  move,  disguised  and  un- 
known, among  their  subjects,  listening  to  the 
free  speech  around  them  and  observant  of 
everything;  rustic  or  city  maidens  become 
queens  and  countesses,  or  are  discovered  to  be 
of  royal  stock;  brothers,  who  are  enemies,  be- 
come reconciled;  those  who  are  innocent  and 
having  been  wrongfully  accused  and  con- 
demned, are  believed  to  have  died  or  been  put 
to  death,  survive,  to  reappear  at  the  right  mo- 
ment, thus  gratifying  the  long-cherished  hopes 
of  those  who  had  once  believed  them  guilty 
and  had  mourned  their  loss. 

Strange  rules  and  compacts  are  imposed, 
strange  understandings  come  to,  such  as  the 
winning  of  husband  or  wife  upon  the  solution 


ROMANCE 


187 


of  an  enigma,  or  upon  the  discovery  of  some 
object;  then  there  is  the  bet  as  to  the  virtue  of 
a  woman,  won  with  a  trick  by  the  punster  or 
by  the  perfidious  accuser;  the  betrothed  or  un- 
willing husband,  finally  obtained  by  the  sub- 
stitution of  another  person;  there  are  miracu- 
lous events,  dreams,  magical  arts,  work  of 
spirits  of  earth  and  sky  .  .  .  Men  and  women 
are  tossed  from  land  to  sea,  from  city  to  for- 
est and  desert,  from  court  to  country,  from  a 
civil  and  cultured,  to  a  rustic  and  simple  life. 
These  latter  situations  are  peculiar  to  romance 
in  the  form  of  the  idyll,  which  is  really  the 
most  romantic  of  romanticisms,  though  it  may 
seem  to  be  the  opposite.  This  is  so  true  that 
even  Don  Quixote,  when  he  saw  the  way  closed 
for  the  time  being  to  the  performance  of  chiv- 
alrous feats  of  knight  errantry,  thought  of  re- 
tiring to  the  country,  there  to  pasture  herds 
and  to  pipe  songs  to  the  beloved,  in  the  com- 
pany of  Sancho  Panza. 

Several  of  Shakespeare's  plays  derive  both 
plot  and  material  from  suchlike  things  and 
persons,  as  for  instance.  As  You  Like  It, 
Twelfth  Night,  All's  Well  That  Ends  Well, 
Cymbeline,  The  Winter's  Tale,  Pericles,  The 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  Much  Ado  About 


i88 


ROMANCE 


Nothingy  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  Measure 
for  Measure.  These  plays  may  be  said  to  be 
altogether  or  in  part,  of  literary  origin,  or  sug- 
gested by  books,  in  a  sense  different  from  that 
in  which  Shakespeare  treated  the  other  plays, 
where,  although  not  bookish,  he  gathered  his 
raw  materials  from  the  English  chroniclers, 
from  ancient  historians,  or  Italian  novelists, 
breathing  upon  it  a  new  spirit  and  thus  mak- 
ing of  it  something  altogether  new  to  the  world. 
Here  on  the  other  hand,  he  found  the  spirit  it- 
self, the  general  sentiment,  in  the  literature  of 
his  time.  Italy  had  worked  upon  the  ancient 
poetry  of  Greece  and  Rome,  upon  Hellenistic 
and  Byzantine  romances,  upon  mediaeval  ro- 
mances, upon  poems  and  plays,  novels  and  come- 
dies, and  with  Italy  was  also  Spain,  whose 
Amadigi  and  Diane  were  known  throughout 
Europe.  The  genesis  of  these  themes  and 
of  his  attraction  towards  them,  is  to  be 
sought,  therefore,  rather  in  the  times  than 
in  Shakespeare  himself,  and  for  this  reason 
we  shall  not  delay  our  progress,  to  show 
how  the  play  of  sentiment  within  made  dear  to 
him  that  wandering  away  in  imagination  to 
the  idyllic  life  of  the  country,  far  from  pomp 
and  artifice,  the  deceits  and  the  delusions  of 


ROMANCE 


189 


courts;  though  this  idyllic  life  itself  became  in 
its  turn  refined  and  artificial  at  his  hand,  a  pas- 
toral theme.  It  is  important  to  note,  too,  that 
all  the  above-mentioned  material  of  situations 
and  adventures  had  already  been  fashioned  and 
arranged  for  the  theatre,  in  the  course  of  the 
second  half  of  the  century.  This  was  espe- 
cially due  to  the  Italian  theatre  of  improvisa- 
tion or  of  "  art,''  as  it  was  called.  This  lit- 
erature, so  often  of  a  most  romantic  and  imag- 
inative kind,  has  had  but  little  attention  at  the 
hand  of  investigators  into  Shakespeare's 
sources  of  inspiration. 

Both  material  derived  from  books  and  lit- 
erary inspiration  combine  to  throw  light  upon 
certain  of  Shakespeare's  works,  which  have 
given  great  trouble  to  the  historians  of  his  art. 
It  is  quite  natural  that  writers  should  draw 
upon  what  they  have  done  before  and  should 
execute  variations  upon  it,  particularly  in  their 
earlier  years,  but  also  later  in  the  course  of  their 
lives,  when  they  have  afforded  far  greater 
proofs  of  their  capacity.  Shakespeare  was 
no  exception  to  this,  any  more  than  the  great 
contemporary  poet  of  Don  Quixote,  who  was 
also  the  author  of  the  Galatea  and  of  Persiles 
y  Sigismunda.     The  Coinedy  of  Errors,  as  we 


V 


igo 


ROMANCE 


bii 


know,  consists  of  a  motive  from  Plautus,  re- 
peated and  rearranged  innumerable  times  by 
the  dramatists  of  the  Renaissance.  In  treat- 
ing this  theme,  Shakespeare  rendered  it  on  the 
one  hand  yet  more  artificial,  while  on  the  other, 
he  endowed  it  with  a  more  marked  tendency 
towards  the  romantic,  and  notwithstanding  the 
frivolity  and  frigidity  of  misunderstandings 
arising  from  identity  of  appearance,  he  yet  re- 
vived them  here  and  there  according  to  his 
wont  with  a  touch  of  the  reality  of  life.  The 
intrigue  of  the  Menecmi,  or  of  very  close  re- 
semblance, pleased  him  so  much  that  he  intro- 
duced it  in  Twelfth  Night,  where  the  pair  are 
of  different  sex.  This  variation  was  first  em- 
ployed by  Cardinal  Bibbiena  in  his  Calandria, 
but  the  Cardinal  made  use  of  it  to  increase  the 
lubricity  of  the  intrigue,  while  Shakespeare 
drew  from  it  a  theme  for  most  graceful  poetic 
inspiration. 

One  would  think  that  the  tragic  theme  of 
Titus  Andronicus  (which  many  critics  would 
like  to  say  was  not  by  Shakespeare,  but  dare 
not,  because  here  the  proofs  of  authenticity  are 
very  strong),  was  also  born  of  a  love  for  lit- 
erary models,  for  the  tragedy  of  horrors,  so 
common  in  Italy  in  those  days  of  the  Canaci 


ROMANCE 


191 


and  the  Orbecchi,  which  were  rather  imitations 
of  Seneca  than  of  Sophocles  and  Euripides,  and 
had  already  inspired  plays  to  the  predecessors 
of  Shakespeare,  with  slaughter  for  their  theme. 
What  more  natural  then,  than  that  Shake- 
speare as  a  young  man  should  strike  this  note  ? 
The  splendid  eloquence  with  which  he  adorned 
the  horrible  tale  is  Shakespearean. 

His  two  poems,  Fenus  and  Adonis  and  The 
Rape  of  Lucrece,  are  to  be  attributed  to  this 
same  literary  taste  for  favorite  models. 
These  poems  received  much  praise  from  con- 
temporaries, but  are  so  far  from  the  **  greater 
Shakespeare,''  that  they  might  almost  appear 
not  to  be  his,  always,  that  is  to  say,  if  the 
greater  Shakespeare  be  turned  into  a  rigidly 
historical  and  conventional  personage.  Their 
literary  origin  is  evident,  not  only  to  those  who 
know  well  the  English  literature  of  the  period 
of  the  Renaissance  (when  Marlowe  was  com- 
posing Hero  and  Leander),  but  yet  more  to 
those  versed  in  the  Italian  literature  of  the 
same  period,  where  the  themes  of  the  two  little 
poems  were  in  great  favour.  As  regards  the 
first  of  these,  Giambattista  Marino,  who  was 
destined  to  expand  it  into  a  long  and  celebrated 
poem,  was  already  born   at  Naples.     Shake- 


192 


ROMANCE 


ROMANCE 


193 


I 


speare  here  flaunts  his  virtuosity  like  our  Italian 
composers  of  melodious  and  voluptuous  oc- 
taves, revelling  in  a  wealth  of  flowery  image 
phrase,  in  his  abundant,  rhetorical  capacity  and 
in  a  formal  beauty  which  contains  something  of 
aesthetic  voluptuousness. 

The  Sonnets  are  also  based  upon  Italian 
models,  where  we  find  exhortations  addressed 
to  admired  youth  set  upon  a  pinnacle,  similar 
to  those  that  passed  between  Venus  and  Adon- 
is. The  beautiful  youth,  posing  as  Adonis, 
and  treated  like  him,  became  very  common  in 
our  lyric  poetry  of  the  time  of  Marino,  in  the 
seventeenth  century,  as  were  also  love  sonnets 
addressed  ta  ladies,  possessing  some  peculiar 
characteristic,  such  as  red  hair  or  a  dark  com- 
plexion, or  even  something  different  or  un- 
familiar in  their  beauty,  such  as  too  lofty  or 
too  diminutive  a  stature. 

Notwithstanding  this  literary  tendency  in  his 
inspiration,  Shakespeare  does  not  cease  to  be 
a  poet,  because  he  is  never  altogether  able  to 
separate  himself  from  himself,  everywhere  he 
infuses  his  own  thoughts  and  modes  of  feeling, 
those  harmonies,  peculiar  to  himself,  those 
movements  of  the  soul,  so  delicate  and  so  pro- 
found.    This  has  endowed  the  Sonnets  with 


the  aspect  of  a  biographical  mystery,  of  a  poem 
containing  some  hidden  moral  and  philosophi- 
cal sense.     When  we  read  verses  such  as  these : 

The  canker-blooms  have  full  as  deep  a  dye 

As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  roses, 

Hang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as  wantonly 

When  summer's   breath   their  masked   buds  discloses. 

But,  for  their  virtue  only  is  their  show, 

They  live  unwoo'd  and  unrespected  fade; 

Die  to  themselves.     Sweet  roses  do  not  so; 

Of  their  sweet  deaths  are  sweetest  odours  made.  .  .  . 

we  feel  the  commonplace  of  literature,  revived 
with  lyric  emotion.  Note  too  in  the  Sonnets 
their  pensiveness,  their  exquisite  moral  tone, 
their  wealth  of  psychological  allusions,  in 
which  we  often  recognise  the  poet  of  the  great 
plays.  Sometimes  there  echoes  in  them  that 
malediction  of  the  chains  of  pleasure,  which 
will  afterwards  become  Anthony  and  Cleo- 
patra ^;  at  others  we  hear  Hamlet,  tormented 
and  perplexed;  yet  more  often  we  catch  glimp- 
ses of  reality  as  appearance  and  appearance  as 
reality,  as  in  the  Dream  or  the  Tempest,  The 
truth  is  that  the  soul  of  Shakespeare,  poured 
into  a  fixed  and  therefore  inadequate  mould, 

^  See  Sonnet  CXXIX:    "The  expense  of  spirit  in  a  waste 
of  shame." 


J 


■ 

MM 


194 


ROMANCE 


his  lyrical  impulse  confined  to  the  epigram- 
matic, cause  the  poetry  to  flow  together  there, 
but  deny  to  it  complete  expansion  and  unfold- 
ing. To  note  but  one  example,  the  celebrated 
sonnet  LXVI  (*Tired  with  all  these  for  rest- 
ful death  I  cry  *'),  is  in  the  manner  of  Hamlet, 
but  developed  analytically,  by  means  of  enu- 
merations and  parallelisms,  and  in  obedience 
to  literary  usage,  and  is  obliged  to  terminate  on 
the  cadence  of  a  madrigal,  in  the  last  rhymed 
couplet.  The  soft,  flexible  verse  of  the  early 
Venus  and  Adonis  is  also  free  of  Marino's  cold 
ingenuity,  of  his  external  sonority  and  melody, 
and  is  inspired  rather  with  a  sense  of  volup- 
tuousness, a  grace,  an  elegance,  which  recall  at 
times  the  stanzas  of  Politian: 

The  night  of  sorrow  now  is  turned  to  day; 

Her  two  blue  windows  faintly  she  upheaveth, 
Like  the  fair  sun,  when  in  his  fresh  array 
He  cheers  the  morn,  and  all  the  earth  relieveth: 
And  as  the  bright  sun  glorifies  the  sky, 
So  is  her  face  illumined  with  her  eye. 

In  Shakespeare  is  nothing  of  the  cold  literary 
exercise;  he  takes  a  vivid  interest  even  in  the 
play  of  fancy,  in  the  bringing  about  of  marvel- 
lous coincidences,  of  unexpected  meetings,  in 
the   romantic   and   the   idyllic.     He   loves   all 


ROMANCE 


195 


these  things,  composing  them  for  his  own  en- 
joyment and  fondling  them  with  the  magic  of 
his  style.  He  cannot  of  course  make  them 
what  they  are  not,  he  cannot  change  their  in- 
timate qualities  into  something  different  from 
what  they  are;  he  cannot  destroy  their  external- 
ity, since  they  came  to  him  from  without. 
What  he  can  and  does  put  into  them  is  above 
all  their  attractiveness  as  images.  For  this 
reason,  the  poetry  that  we  find  here  Is  of  neces- 
sity rather  superficial  and  tenuous,  far  more  so 
than  the  poetry  of  the  love  dramas,  where  his 
powers  have  a  wider  scope  for  observation,  for 
reflexion  and  for  meditation  upon  human  affec- 
tions. 

What  has  been  said  above  as  to  the  inven- 
tions and  fables,  which  serve  as  a  decorative 
background  to  certain  of  the  comedies  of  love, 
is  also  applicable  to  these  romantic  and  idyllic 
plays,  in  which  the  decorative  background 
takes  the  first  place  and  becomes  the  principal 
theme.  For  the  rest,  it  goes  without  saying 
that  the  plots  or  decorations  referred  to  are 
also  to  be  included  (as  has  been  done)  in  the 
present  argument,  because  it  turns  upon  the 
different  motives  of  Shakespeare's  poetry,  not 
upon  the  works  that  are  materially  distinct, 


N 


196 


ROMANCE 


ROMANCE 


197 


I 


where  several  motives  usually  meet  and  are 
sometimes  so  very  loosely  connected,  as  to  form 
no  more  intimate  a  unity  than  the  rather  capri- 
cious one,  of  general  tone. 

A  sense   of  unreality  is  therefore  diffused 
upon  the  romantic  plays,  not  of  falsity,  but 
just  of  unreality,  such  as  we  experience  in  the 
play  of  fancy,  when  we  recount  a  fairy  tale, 
well  aware  that  it  is  a  fairy  tale,  yet  greatly 
enjoying  the  passage  to  and  fro  before  us  of 
the  prince,  the  beauty,  the  ogre  and  the  fairy. 
A  proof  of  this  is  to  be  found  in  the  summary 
treatment  of  the  characters  and  the  turning- 
points  or  crises  of  the  action,  the  easy  pardon- 
ing and  making  of  peace,  and  the  bizarre  ex- 
pedients adopted  to  bring  the  intrigue  to  an 
end.     Instances  of  the  second  sort  are  the  ad- 
venture of  the  lion  in  the  Forest  of  Arden 
the  reconciliation  of  the  two  enemy  brothers 
in  As  You  Like  It,  the  dream  of  Posthumus  in 
Cymbeline,  the  advent  of  the  bear  and  the  ship- 
wreck in  the  Winter's  Tale,  and  the  like.     And 
as  regards  summary  treatment,  where  could  we 
find  a  more  off-hand  lago  than  the  Hyacinth 
of  Cymbeline,   guilty   of   the   most   audacious 
and  perverse  betrayals,  as  though  by  chance, 
yet  later  on,  when  he  confesses  his  sins,  he  is 


forgiven  and  starts  again,  so  far  as  we  can  see, 
a  gentleman  and  perfect  knight.  We  do  not 
speak  of  Posthumus,  of  Cloten,  of  King  Cym- 
beline and  of  so  many  personages  in  this  and 
others  of  the  romantic  plays.  The  wicked  turn 
out  to  be  all  the  more  harmless,  the  greater 
their  wickedness;  the  good  are  good  nunc  et 
semper,  without  intermission,  exactly  as  intro- 
duced at  the  beginning  of  the  play;  the  most 
desperate  situations,  the  most  terrible  passes, 
are  speedily  and  completely  overcome,  or  one 
foresees  that  they  will  be  overcome.  Here 
romance  has  no  intention  whatever  of  ending 
unhappily  or  in  pensive  sadness;  it  wishes  to 
stimulate  the  Imagination,  but  at  the  same  time 
to  keep  it  agile  and  happy  and  to  leave  It  con- 
tented. Indeed,  In  those  rare  cases  when  we 
do  meet  with  painful  or  terrible  motives,  which 
are  not  easily  overcome  in  the  course  of  the 
imaginative  development  of  the  work,  we  are 
sensible  of  being  slightly  jarred,  and  this  Is  per- 
haps the  reason  for  that  **  displeasure,"  which 
such  fine  judges  as  Coleridge  note  In  Measure 
for  Measure,  so  rich,  nevertheless.  In  splendid 
passages,  worthy  of  Shakespeare.  Not  only 
does  this  comedy  verge  upon  tragedy,  but  here 
and  there  it  becomes  Immersed  in  It,  vainly 


19^ 


ROMANCE 


attempting  to  return  to  the  light  romantic  vein 
and  end  like  a  fairy  story,  with  everyone  happy» 

Another  element  which  adds  to  the  imagina- 
tive unreality  and  the  gay  lightsomeness  of  the 
romantic  dramas,  is  to  be  found  in  the  clown, 
the  burlesque  incidents,  which  abound  in  all 
of  them:  Malvolio  and  Uncle  Toby  in 
Twelfth  Night,  Parolles  in  All's  Well,  the 
watch  in  Much  Ado  and  so  on.  Certain  per- 
sonages also,  who  might  seem  to  be  characters, 
such  as  the  melancholy  Jacques  in  As  You  Like 
It  or  Autolycus  in  the  Winte/s  Tale,  are  treated 
rather  as  character  studies. 

These  comedies  excel  in  the  weaving  of  in- 
tricate incidents,  they  are  replete  with  grace 
and  winsomeness,  melodious  with  songs  inspired 
by  idyllic  themes.  They  are  far  superior  in 
emotional  quality,  as  is  the  rustic,  woodland, 
pastoral  poetry  of  Shakespeare,  to  that  of 
Italy  and  of  Spain,  not  only  to  the  Pastor  Fido, 
but  also  to  the  Aminta,  because  Shakespeare 
succeeds  in  grafting  his  gay  and  gentle  heart 
upon  his  artificial  and  conventional  models. 
Take  for  instance  in  As  You  Like  It  the  scenes 
in  the  third  act,  between  Rosalind  and  Celia, 
Rosalind  and  Orlando,  Corin  and  Touchstone, 


ROMANCE 


199 


and  in  general,  the  whole  life  led  by  the  young 
men  and  maidens,  the  shepherds  and  gentlemen, 
in  that  idyllic  Forest  of  Arden;  or  the  open 
air  banquet,  in  the  Winter's  Tale,  at  which  the 
king  surprises  his  son  on  the  point  of  marrying 
Perdita;  or  in  Cymheline,  Hyacinth's  contem- 
plation of  the  chaste  and  tender  beauty  of  the 
sleeping  Imogen ;  and  in  the  same  play,  all  the 
scenes  among  the  mountains  between  Bellario 
and  the  two  refugee  sons  of  the  king,  Guiderio 
and  Arviragus. 

They  correspond  to  that  most  beautiful  ut- 
terance in  exquisite  verse  of  Tasso's  Hermione 
Among  the  Shepherds.  His  thoughts  come 
back  in  such  lines  as  the  following: 

"  O,  this  life 
Is  nobler  than  attending  for  a  check, 
Richer  than  doing  nothing  for  a  bribe, 
Prouder  than  rustling  in  unpaid  for  silk: 
Such  gain  the  cap  of  him  that  makes  *em  fine.  .  .  ." 


or 


"  Come,  our  stomachs 
Will  make  what's  homely  savoury:  weariness 
Can  snore  upon  the  flint,  when  rusty  sloth 
Finds  the  down  pillow  hard.     Now,  peace  be  here, 
Poor  house  that  keepest  thyself !  " 


v; ' 


200 


PRACTICAL   ACTION 


But  Shakespeare  can  rise  yet  higher,  to  that 
most  tender  of  songs  by  the  two  brothers  over 
Imogene,  whom  they  believe  to  be  dead. 


I 


I 


Shakespeare's  Interest  in  Practical 

Action 

The  third  conspicuous  aspect  of  Shake- 
speare's genius  corresponds  to  what  are  known 
as  the  *' historical  plays."  Only  here  and 
there  do  we  find  a  critic  who  takes  them  to  be 
the  loftiest  form  of  Shakespearean  poetry, 
while  the  majority  on  the  other  hand  hold  them 
to  be  merely  a  preparatory  form  for  other 
poetry,  and  the  general  view  (always  worthy 
consideration)  is  that  they  are  less  happy  or 
less  intense  than  the  **  great  tragedies." 

It  is  also  said  of  them  that  they  represent 
the  period  of  the  "  historical  education,"  which 
Shakespeare  undertook,  with  a  view  to  acquir- 
ing a  full  sense  of  real  life  and  the  capacity  for 
drawing  personages  and  situations  with  firm- 
ness of  outline.  One  critic  has  defined  them 
as  a  series  of  ''  studies,"  studies  of  **  heads," 
of  **  physiognomies,"  of  "movements,"  taken 
from  historical  life  or  reality,  in  order  to  form 


PRACTICAL   ACTION 


20I 


the  eye  and  the  hand,  something  like  the  sketch- 
books and  collections  of  designs  of  a  future 
great  painter. 

The  defect  of  such  critical  explanations  lies 
in  continuing  to  conceive  of  the  artistic  process 
as  something  mechanical,  and  the  unrecognised 
but  understood  presumption  of  some  sort  of 
**  imitation  of  nature."  Had  Shakespeare  in- 
tended to  educate  himself  **  historically,"  by  • 
writing  the  historical  plays,  (assuming,  but  not 
admitting,  that  to  run  through  the  English 
chronicles,  and  even  Plutarch's  lives,  can  be 
called  historical  education),  he  would  have  de- 
veloped and  formed  his  historical  thought  and 
become  a  thinker  and  a  critic,  he  would  not  have 
conceived  and  reahsed  the  scenes  and  person- 
ages of  the  plays.  Neither  Shakespeare  nor 
any  other  artist  can  ever  attempt  to  reproduce 
external  nature  or  history  turned  into  external  . 
reality  (since  they  do  not  exist  in  a  concrete 
form)  even  in  the  period  of  first  attempts  and 
studies;  all  he  can  do  is  to  try  to  produce  and 
recognise  his  own  sentiment  and  to  give  it 
form.  We  are  thus  always  brought  back  and 
confined  to  the  study  of  sentiment,  or,  as  in  the 
present  case,  to  the  sentiment  which  inspired 
what  are  known  as  the  historical  plays.jr 


M 


■ 


1 


202 


PRACTICAL  ACTION 


PRACTICAL  ACTION 


203 


Among  these  are  to  be  numbered  all  those 
that  deal  with  English  history,  The  Life  and 
Death  of  King  John,  Richard  II,  Henry  IF, 
F,  FI,  and  Richard  III,  setting  aside  for  cer- 
tain reasons  Henry  Fill,  but  including  among 
the  plays  from  Roman  history  (or  from  Plu- 
tarch as  they  are  also  called),  Coriolanus, 
while  Julius  Caesar  and  Anthony  and  Cleopatra 
are  connected  with  the  great  tragedies.  The 
historical  quality  of  the  material,  in  like  man- 
ner, with  every  other  material  determination, 
is  not  conclusive  as  to  the  quality  of  the  poetic 
works,  and  is  therefore  not  independently  valid 
in  the  estimation  of  the  critic,  as  a  criterion  for 
separation  or  conjunction.  A  reconsideration 
of  the  plays  mentioned  above  and  their  prom- 
inent characteristics,  does  not  lead  to  accepting 
them  as  a  kind  of  "  dramatised  epic,"  or  as 
"  works  which  stand  half  way  between  epic 
and  drama"  (Schlegel,  Coleridge),  not  that 
there  is  any  difficulty  in  the  appearance  of  epic 
quality  in  the  form  of  theatrical  dialogue,  but 
just  because  epic  quality  is  absent  in  those 
dramas.  It  would  indeed  be  strange  to  see 
epic  quality  appearing  in  an  episodic  manner  in 
an  author,  during  the  period  of  youth  alone. 
Epicity,  in  fact,  means  feeling  for  human  strug- 


gles, but  for  human  struggles  lit  with  the  light 
of  an  aspiration  and  an  ideal,  such  as  one's 
own  people,  one's  own  religious  faith  and  the 
like,  and  therefore  containing  the  antitheses 
of  friends  and  foes,  of  heroes  on  both  sides, 
some  on  the  side  finally  victorious,  because  pro- 
tected by  God  or  justice,  others  upon  that  which 
is  to  be  discomfited,  subjected,  or  destroyed. 
Now  Shakespeare,  as  has  already  been  said  and 
is  universally  recognized,  is  not  a  partisan;  he 
marches  under  no  political  or  religious  banner, 
he  is  not  the  poet  of  particular  practical  ideals, 
non  est  de  hoc  mundo,  because  he  always  goes 
beyond,  to  the  universal  man,  to  the  cosmic 
problem. 

Commentators  have,  it  Is  true,  laboured  to 
extract  from  these  and  others  of  his  plays,  the 
ideals  which  they  suppose  him  to  have  culti- 
vated, concerning  the  perfect  king,  the  inde- 
pendence and  greatness  of  England,  the  aristo- 
cracy, which  in  their  judgment  was  the  main- 
stay and  glory  of  his  country.  They  have  dis- 
covered his  Achilles  (in  the  double  form  of 
"Achilles  in  Sciro "  and  of  "Achilles  at 
Troy")  in  Prince  Henry,  and  his  plus  Aeneas, 
in  the  same  prince  become  Heary  V,  who, 
grown  conscious  of  his  new  duties,  resolutely 


fir:% 


'     1 


204  PRACTICAL   ACTION 

and  definitely  severs  himself,  not  from  a  Dido, 
but  from  a  Falstaff.     They  have  discovered  his 
paladins   In  the  great  representatives   of  the 
English  aristocracy,  and  as  reflected  In  the  Ro- 
man aristocracy,  by  a  Corlolanus,  and  on  the 
other  hand  the  class  which  he  suspected  and  de- 
spised.  In  the  populace   and  plebeians  of  all 
time,  whether  of  those  that  surrounded  Men- 
emus  Agrippa  or  who  created  tumult  for  and 
against  Julius  Caesar  In  the  Forum,  or  those 
others  who  bestowed  upon  Jack  Cade  a  fortune 
as  evanescent  as  It  was  sudden.     Finally,  his 
Trojans  or  Rutullans,  enemies  of  his  people, 
are  supposed  by  them  to  be  the  French.     But  if 
the  epic  ideal  had  possessed  real  force  and  con- 
sistency In  the  mind  of  Shakespeare,  we  should 
not   have   needed   industrious    interpreters    to 
track  It  down   and  demonstrate   It.     On   the 
other  hand.  It  Is  clear  that  the  author  of  Henry 
VI,  in  treating  as  he  did  Talbot  and  the  Maid 
of  Orleans,  and  the  author  of  Henry  V^  In  his 
illustration  of  the  struggles  between  the  Eng- 
llsh  and  the  French  and  the  victory  of  Agin- 
court,  restricted  himself  to  adopting  the  popular 
and  traditional  English  view,  without  identify- 
ing that  with  his  spiritual  self,  or  taxing  it  as 


PRACTICAL  ACTION 


205 


'^^ 


his  guide  to  the  conception  of  the  English  and 
Roman  plays. 

Nor  Is  there  any  value  in  another  view,  to  the 
effect  that  Shakespeare  in  these  plays  set  the 
example  and  paved  the  way  for  what  was  after- 
wards called  historical  and  romantic  drama. 
Had  he  sought  this  end,  he  would  not  only 
have  required  some  sort  of  political,  social  and 
religious  ideal,  but  also  historical  reflection,  the 
sense  of  what  distinguishes  and  gives  character 
to  past  times  in  respect  to  present,  and  also 
that  nostalgia  for  the  past,  which  both  Shake- 
speare and  the  Italian  and  English  Renaissance 
were  altogether  without.  About  two  centuries 
had  to  elapse  before  an  Imitator  of  Shake- 
speare, or  rather  of  some  of  his  external  forms 
and  methods,  arose,  in  the  composer  of  Goetz 
von  Berlichingen,  He  had  assimilated  the 
new  historical  curiosity  and  affection  for  the 
rude  and  powerful  past,  and  there  provided  the 
first  model  of  what  was  soon  afterwards  de- 
veloped as  historical  romance  and  drama,  es- 
pecially by  Walter  Scott. 

Whoever  tries  to  discover  the  internal  stim- 
ulus, the  constructive  idea,  the  lyrical  motive, 
which  led  Shakespeare  to  convert  the  Chroni- 
cles of  Holinshed  ^nd  the  Lives  of  Plutarch  into 


206 


PRACTICAL  ACTION 


PRACTICAL  ACTION 


207 


^i 


I 


:2n 


ii 


i 


dramatic  form,  when  his  possession  of  the  epic 
ideal  and  nostalgia  for  the  past  have  been  ex- 
cluded, finds  nothing  save  an  interest  in  and  an 
affection  for  practical  achievement,  for  action 
attentively  followed,  in  its  cunning  and  audac- 
ity, in  the  obstacles  that  it  meets,  in  the  dis- 
comfitures, the  triumphs,  the  various  attitudes 
of  the  different  temperaments  and  characters 
of  men.     This  interest,  finding  its  most  suitable 
material  in  political  and  warlike  conflicts,  was 
naturally  attracted  to  history  and  to  that  es- 
pecial form  of  it,  which  was  nearest  to  the  soul 
and  to  the  culture  of  the  poet  of  his  people  and 
of  his  time,  English  and  Roman  history.    This 
material  had  already  been  brought  to  the  the- 
atre by  other  writers  and  was  in  this  way  intro- 
duced to  the  attention  and  used  by  the  new 
poet.     A  psychological  origin  of  this  sort  ex- 
plains the  vigour  of  the  representations,  which 
Shakespeare  derived  from  history,  incompre- 
hensible,  if  as  philologists  maintain,   he  had 
simply  set  himself  to  cultivate,  a  "  style  "  that 
was  demanded  in  the   theatre  and  known  as 
chronicle  plays,   or   had   there   set  himself   a 
merely  technical  task,  with  a  view  to  attaining 
dexterity. 

That  psychological  interest,  too,  in  §q  far  as 


separated  from  a  supreme  end  or  ideal,  to- 
wards which  actions  tend,  or  rather  in  so  far 
as  it  remains  uncertain  and  vague  in  this  re- 
spect, limiting  itself  to  questions  of  loss  or  gain, 
of  success  or  failure,  of  living  or  dying,  is  not 
a  qualitative,  but  a  formal  interest.  It  can 
also  be  called  political,  if  you  will,  but  political 
in  the  sense  of  Machiavelli  and  the  Renaissance, 
in  so  far  as  politics  are  considered  for  them- 
selves, and  therefore  only  formally.  Hence 
the  impression  caused  by  the  historical  plays  of 
Shakespeare,  of  being  now  "  a  gallery  of  por- 
traits,'' now  "  a  series  of  personal  experiences," 
which  the  poet  is  supposed  to  have  achieved  in 
imagination. 

It  Is  certain  that  their  richness,  their  bril- 
liancy, their  attraction,  lie  in  the  emotional  rep- 
resentation of  practical  activity.  Bolingbroke 
ascends  the  throne,  by  the  adoption  of  violent 
and  tortuous  means,  knowing  when  to  withdraw 
himself  and  when  to  dare.  Later  he  recounts 
to  his  son  how  artfully  he  composed  and  main- 
tained the  attitude,  which  caused  him  to  be 
looked  upon  with  sympathy  and  reverence  by 
the  people,  affecting  humility  and  humanity, 
but  preserving  at  the  same  time  the  element  of 
the  marvellous,  so  that  his  presence,  like  a  robe 


2o8 


PRACTICAL   ACTION 


•J  1 1 


/ 


pontifical,    was    ne'er   seen    but   wondered   at. 
He  causes  the  blood  of  the  deposed  king  to  be 
shed,  while  protesting  after  the  deed  his  great 
grief  that  blood  should  sprinkle  me  to  make  me 
grow,  and  promising  to  undertake  a  voyage  of 
expiation  to  the  Holy  Land.     Facing  him  is  the 
falling  monarch,  Richard  II,  in  whose  breast 
Cqnsciousness  of  his  own  sacred  character  as 
legitimate  sovereign  and  of  the  inviolable  dig- 
nity   attached    to    it,    the    sense    of   being    to 
blame,  of  pride  humiliated,  of  resignation  to 
destiny  or  divine  decree,  of  bitterness,  of  sar- 
casm towards  himself  and  towards  others,  suc- 
ceed,   alternate    and   combat   one    another,    a 
swarm  of  writhing  sentiments,  an  agony  of  suf- 
focated passions. 

"  O,  that  I  were  as  great 
As  is  my  grief,  or  lesser  than  my  name ! 
Or  that  I  could  forget  what  I  have  been! 
Or  not  remember  what  I  must  be  now ! 
Swell'st  thou,   proud  heart?     I'll  give  thee  scope  to 
beat.  .  .  ." 

Elsewhere  we  find  the  same  inexorable  con- 
queror, Bolingbroke,  as  Henry  IV,  triumphant 
on  several  occasions  against  different  enemies, 
now  infirm  and  approaching  death,  raving  from 
lack  of  sleep,  and  envying  the  meanest  of  his  sub- 


PRACTICAL  ACTION 


2og 


jects,  blindly  groping  in  the  vain  shadows  of 
human  effort,  as  once  his  conquered  predecessor, 
and  filled  with  terror,  as  he  views  the  whole  ex- 
tent of  the  universe  and  the 

"  Revolution  of  the  times 
Make  mountains  level,  and  the  continent, 
Weary  of  solid  firmness,  melt  itself 
Into  the  sea!  .  .  . 

And  changes  fill  the  cup  of  alteration 
With  divers  liquors!     O,  if  this  were  seen, 
The  happiest  youth, —  viewing  his  progress  through 
What  perils  past,  v^^hat  crosses  to  ensue, — 
Would  shut  the  book  and  sit  him  down  and  die." 

And  hearing  of  some  friends  becoming  es- 
tranged and  of  others  changing  into  enemies,  he 
is  no  longer  indignant  nor  astonished: 

"Are   these   things   then   necessities? 
Then  let  us  meet  them  as  necessities." 

Henry  V  meditates  upon  the  singular  condi- 
tion of  kings,  upon  their  majesty,  which  sep- 
arates them  from  all  other  men  and  by  thus 
elevating,  loads  them  with  a  weight  equal  to 
that  which  all  men  together  have  to  carry, 
while  taking  from  them  the  joys  given  to 
others,  and  depriving  them  of  hearing  the  truth 
or  of  obtaining  justice. 


I 


! 


'B 


II     • 


2IO         PRACTICAL  ACTION 

He  feels  himself  to  be  more  than  a  king  in 
those  moments  when  he  tears  off  his  own  kingly 
mask  and  mirrors  himself  in  his  naked  reality 
as  man.  Facing  the  enemies  who  are  drawn 
up  on  the  field  of  battle  and  ready  to  attack 
him,  he  murmurs  to  himself  the  profound 
words : 

**  Besides  they  are  our  natural  consciences, 
And  preachers  to  us  ail;  admonishing 
That  we  should  dress  us  fairly  for  our  end.'* 

Death  reigns  above  all  else  in  these  dramas, 
death,  which  brings  every  great  effort  to  an 
end,  all  torment  of  burning  passion  and  ambi- 
tion, all  rage  of  barbarous  crimes,  and  is  there- 
fore received  as  a  lofty  and  severe  matron;  in 
her  presence,  countenances  are  composed,  how- 
ever ardently  she  has  been  withstood,  however 
loudly  the  brave  show  of  life  has  been  affirmed. 
Death  is  received  thus  by  all  or  nearly  all  the 
men  in  Shakespeare,  by  the  tortured  and  elegiac 
Richard  II,  by  the  great  sinner  Suffolk,  by  the 
diabolic  Richard  III,  down  to  the  other  lesser 
victims  of  fate.     The  vileness  of  the  vile,  the 
rascality  of  rascals,  the  brutal  stupidity  of  ac- 
claiming or  imprecating  crowds,  are  felt  and 
represented  with  equal  intensity,  without  once 


i 


PRACTICAL   ACTION 


211 


permitting  anything  of  the  struggle  of  life  to 
escape,  so  vast  in  its  variety: 

The  personages  of  these  plays  arise  like 
three-dimensional  statues,  that  is  to  say  they 
are  treated  with  full  reality,  and  thus  form  a 
perfect  antithesis  to  the  figures  of  the  roman- 
tic plays.  These  are  superficial  portraits, 
vivid,  but  light  and  vanishing  into  air;  they  are 
rather  types  than  individuals.  This  does  not 
imply  a  judgment  of  greater  or  lesser  value  or 
a  difference  in  the  art  of  portraying  the  true; 
it  only  expresses  in  other  words  and  formulas 
the  different  sentiment  that  animates  the  two 
different  groups  of  artistic  creations,  that  which 
springs  from  delight  in  the  romantic  and  that 
due  to  interest  in  human  action.  A  Hotspur, 
introduced  upon  the  scene  of  the  romantic 
dramas,  would  break  through  them  like  a  statue 
of  bronze  placed  upon  a  fragile  flooring  of 
boards  and  painted  canvas.  He  Is  the  true 
"  formal "  hero,  volitional,  inrushing,  disdain- 
ful, Impatient,  exuberant;  we  walk  round  him, 
admiring  his  lofty  stature,  his  muscular 
strength,  his  potent  gestures.  He  is  like  a 
splendid  bow,  with  its  mighty  string  drawn 
tight  to  hurl  the  missile,  but  wherefore  or 
whither  it  will  strike,  we  cannot  tell.     He  Is  all 


212 


PRACTICAL   ACTIOhf 


;£: 


m 


fj! 


rebellion  and  battle,  yet  his  wit  and  satire  is 
worthy  of  an  artist;  he  loves,  too,  with  a  pure 
tenderness.  But  wit  and  satire  and  the  words 
of  love,  alike,  bear  even  the  imprint  and  are 
hastened  by  impetuosity,  as  of  a  man  engaged 
in  conversation  between  one  combat  and  an- 
other, still  joyful  and  hot  from  the  battle  that 
is  over,  already  hot  and  joyful  for  that  which 
is  to  begin.  **  Away,  away,  you  trifler,'*  he 
says  to  his  wife,  ''  you  that  are  thinking  of  love. 
Love!     I  love  thee  not, 

I  care  not  for  thee,  Kate:  this  is  no  world 
To  play  with  memmets  and  to  tilt  with  lips : 
We  must  have  bloody  noses  and  cracked  crowns, 
And  pass  them  current  too.     Gods  me,  my  horse! 
What  say'st  thou,  Kate?     What  would'st  thou  have 
with  me  ?  " 

His  parallel  (perhaps  slightly  inferior  artist- 
ically), is  the  Roman  Coriolanus,  as  brave,  as 
violent  and  as  disdainful  as  he,  a  despiser  of 
the  people  and  of  the  people's  praise;  he  too 
rushes  over  the  precipice  to  death  and  is  also 
a  "  formal "  hero,  because  his  bravery  is  not 
founded  upon  love  of  country,  or  upon  a  faith 
or  ideal  of  any  kind,  one  might  almost  say  that 
it  was  without  object  or  that  its  object  was 
itself.     Nor,  on  the  other  hand,  is  Coriolanus 


PRACTICAL   ACTION 


213 


a  superman,  in  the  sense  suggested  by  the  works 
of  some  of  the  predecessors  and  contemporaries 
of  Shakespeare.  He  is  not  less  tenderly  de- 
monstrative towards  his  mother  or  his  silent 
wife  {^^  my  gracious  silence  *^)^  than  is  Hot- 
spur to  Kate,  or  when,  yielding  to  a  woman's 
prayers,  he  stays  the  course  of  his  triumphant 
vengeance.  It  would  be  tedious  to  record  all 
the  personages  of  indomitable  power  that  we 
meet  with  in  these  historical  dramas,  such  as 
the  bastard  Faulconbridge,  in  King  John,  and 
most  popular  of  all,  though  not  the  most  artis- 
tically executed,  Richard  III,  replete  with  in- 
iquity, who  clears  the  way  by  dealing  death 
around  himself  without  pity,  and  dies  in  the 
midst  of  combat  with  that  last  cry  of  desperate 
courage,  "  A  horse,  a  horse !  My  kingdom  ' 
for  a  horse !  *'  At  their  side  stand,  not  less 
powerfully  delineated,  and  set  in  relief,  those 
queens  Constance  and  Margaret:  deprived  of 
their  power  and  full  of  maledictions,  terrible 
in  their  fury,  they  are  either  ferocious  or  shut 
themselves  up  in  their  majestic  sorrow.  Queen 
Constance,  when  she  sees  herself  abandoned 
by  her  protectors  in  the  face  of  her  enemies, 
who  have  become  their  allies,  says,  as  she  lets 
herself  fall  to  the  ground: 


'^  ;■ '  I 


214 


PRACTICAL   ACTION 


tn 


11 
i 


"  Let  kings  assemble ;  for  my  grief's  so  great 
That  no  supporter  but  the  huge  firm  earth 
Can  hold  it  up:  here  I  and  sorrows  sit; 
H^re  is  my  throne :  bid  kings  come  bow  to  it." 

This  gallery  of  historical  figures  is  most  varied; 
we  find  here  not  only  the  vigorous  and  proud, 
the  sorrowful  and  troubled,  but  also  the  noble 
and  severe,  like  Gaunt,  the  touching,  like  the 
little  princes  destined  to  the  dagger  of  the  as- 
sassins. Prince  Arthur  and  the  sons  of  Edward 
IV,  down  to  the  laughing  and  the  credulous, 
to  those  who  defy  prejudice  to  wallow  in  de- 
bauch. 

Sir  John  Falstaff  is  the  first  of  these  latter, 
and  it  is  important  not  to  misunderstand  him,  as 
certain  critics  have  done,  especially  among  the 
'French.  They  have  looked  upon  him  as  a 
jovial,  comic  type,  a  theatrical  buffoon,  and 
have  compared  him  with  the  comic  theatrical 
types  of  other  stages,  arriving  at  the  conclusion 
that  he  is  a  less  happy  and  less  successful  con- 
ception than  they,  because  his  comicality  is  ex- 
clusively English,  and  is  not  to  be  well  under- 
stood outside  England  and  America.  But  we 
must  on  the  other  hand  be  careful  not  to  inter- 
pret the  character  moralistically,  as  an  image  of 
baseness,  darkly  coloured  with  the  poet's  con- 


m 


PRACTICAL   ACTION 


215 


tempt,  as  one  towards  whom  he  experienced  a 
feeling  of  disgust.  Falstaff  could  call  himself  a 
"  formal  '*  hero  in  his  own  way:  magnificent  in 
ignoring  morality  and  honour,  logical,  coher- 
ent, acute  and  dexterous.  He  is  a  being  in 
whom  the  sense  of  honour  has  never  appeared, 
or  has  been  obliterated,  but  the  intellect  has 
developed  and  become  what  alone  it  could  be- 
come, namely,  esprit,  or  sharpness  of  wit.  He 
is  without  malice,  because  malice  is  the  antithe- 
sis of  moral  conscientiousness,  and  he  lacks 
both  thesis  and  antithesis.  There  is  in  him, 
on  the  contrary,  a  sort  of  Innocence,  the  result 
of  the  complete  liberty  of  his  relation  toward 
all  restraint  and  towards  ethical  law.  His 
great  body,  his  old  sinner's  flesh,  his  complete 
experience  of  taverns  and  lupanars,  of  rogues 
male  and  female,  complicates  without  destroy- 
ing the  soul  of  the  boy  that  Is  In  him,  a  very 
vicious  boy,  but  yet  a  boy.  For  this  reason, 
he  is  sympathetic,  that  Is  to  say,  he  Is  sympa- 
thetically felt  and  lovingly  depicted  by  the  poet. 
The  image  of  a  child,  that  Is  to  say  of  childish 
Innocence,  comes  spontaneously  to  the  lips  of 
the  hostess,  as  she  tells  of  how  he  died: 
"Nay,  sure,  he's  not  In  hell:  he's  In  Arthur's 
bosom.  If  ever  man  went  to  Arthur's  bosom. 


2l6 


PRACTICAL   ACTION 


• 


*  A  made  a  fine  end,  and  went  away,  an  it  had 
been  any  Christom  child.  .  .  ." 

Shylock  the  Jew  also  finds  a  place  In  the  his- 
torical gallery,  for  the  very  reason  that  he  is  a 
Jew,  "  the  Jew,"  indeed,  a  historical  forma- 
tion, and  Shakespeare  conceives  and  describes 
him  with  the  characteristics  proper  to  his  race 
and  religion,  one  might  almost  say,  sociologi- 
cally. It  has  been  asserted  that  for  Shake- 
speare and  for  his  public  Shylock  was  a  comic 
personage,  intended  to  be  flouted  and  laughed 
at  by  the  pit;  but  we  do  not  know  what  were 
the  intentions  of  Shakespeare  and  as  usual  they 
matter  little,  because  Shylock  lives  and  speaks, 
himself  explaining  what  he  means,  without  the 
aid  of  commentaries,  even  such  as  the  author 
might  possibly  have  supplied.  Shylock  crying 
out  in  his  desperation :  **  My  daughter !  O 
my  ducats!  .  .  ."  may  have  made  laugh  the 
spectators  in  the  theatre,  but  that  cry  of  the 
wounded  and  tortured  animal  does  not  make 
the  poetical  reader  laugh;  he  forms  anything 
but  a  comic  conception  of  that  being,  trampled 
down,  poisoned  at  heart  and  unshakeable  in  his 
desire  for  vengeance.  On  the  other  hand  the 
pathetic  and  biassed  interpretations  of  Shylock 
that  have  been  given  during  the  nineteenth  cen- 


PRACTICAL  ACTION 


217 


tury,  are  foreign  to  the  ingenuousness  of  a  crea- 
tion, without  a  shadow  of  humanitarianism  or 
of  polemic.  What  Shakespeare  has  created, 
fusing  his  own  impressions  and  experiences  in 
the  crucible  of  his  attentive  and  thoughtful 
humanity.  Is  the  Jew,  with  his  firm  cleaving  to 
the  law  and  to  the  written  word,  with  his  hatred 
for  Christian  feeling,  with  his  biblical  language, 
now  sententious  now  sublime,  the  Jew  with  his 
peculiar  attitude  of  intellect,  will  and  morality. 
Yet  we  are  Inclined  to  ask  why  Shylock,  seen 
in  the  relations  in  which  he  is  placed  In  the 
Merchant  of  Venice,  arouses  some  doubt  in  our 
minds;  he  would  seem  to  require  a  background 
which  is  lacking  to  him  there.  This  back- 
ground cannot  be  the  romantic  story  of  Portia 
and  the  three  caskets,  or  of  the  tired  and  mel- 
ancholy Antonio.  The  reader  Is  not  convinced 
by  the  rapid  fall  of  so  great  an  adversary,  who 
accepts  the  conversion  to  Christianity  finally 
imposed  upon  him.  But  apart  also  from  the 
particular  mixture  of  real  and  imaginary,  of 
serious  and  light,  which  we  find  in  the  Mer^ 
chant  of  Venice,  It  does  not  appear  that  the 
characters  of  the  strictly  historical  plays  find 
the  ideal  complement  which  they  should  find 
in  the  plays  where  they  appear.     The  reason 


I 


2l8 


PRACTICAL  ACTION 


r 


for  this  IS  not  to  be  found  in  the  looseness  and 
reliance  upon  chronicles  for  which  they  have 
so  often  been  blamed,  since  this  is  rather  a 
consequence  or  general  effect  of  Shakespeare's 
attitude  towards  the  practical  life,   described 
above.     This  attitude,  as  we  have  seen,  lacks 
a  definite  ideal,  is  indeed,  without  passion  for 
any  sort  of  particular  ideals,  but  is  animated 
with  sympathy  for  the  varying  lots  of  striving 
humanity.     For  this  reason,  it  is  entirely  con- 
centrated,   on   the    one   hand   upon   character 
drawing,  and  on  the  other  is  inclined  to  accept 
somewhat  passively  the  material  furnished  by 
the  chronicles  and  histories.     On  the  one  hand 
it  is  all  force  and  impetus,  while  on  the  other  it 
lacks  idealisation  and  condensation.     The  mar- 
velous Hotspur  appears  in  the  play,  in  order 
that   he   may   confirm   the   glory   of  youthful 
Prince  Hal,  that  is  to  say,  that  he  may  provide 
a  curious  anecdote  of  what  was  or  appeared 
to  be  the  scapegrace  youth  of  a  future  sage 
sovereign;  that  is,  he  is  not  fully  represented. 
Coriolanus  runs  himself  into  a  blind  alley;  and 
even  if  the  poet  portrays  with  historical  pene- 
tration, the  patricians  and  plebeians  of  Rome, 
it  would  be  vain  to  seek  in  the  play  for  the 
centre  of  gravity  of  his  feelings,  of  his  pre- 


PRACTICAL  ACTION 


219 


dilictions,  or  of  his  aspirations,  because  both 
Coriolanus,  the  tribunes  and  his  adversaries  are 
looked  upon  solely  as  characters,  not  as  parts 
and  expressions  of  a  sentiment  that  should 
justify  one  or  other  or  both  groups.  Finally, 
Falstaff  is  sacrificed,  because,  like  Hotspur,  he 
has  been  used  for  the  purpose  of  enhancing 
the  greatness  of  the  future  Henry  V;  for  this 
reason,  he  declines  in  prestige  from  the  first  to 
the  last  scenes  of  the  first  part  of  Henry  IV, 
not  to  speak  of  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor, 
where  we  find  him  reduced  to  being  a  merely 
farcical  character,  flouted  and  thrashed.  And 
when  his  former  boon  companion.  Prince  Hal, 
now  on  the  throne,  answers  his  advances,  fa- 
miliar and  confidential  as  in  the  past,  with  hard, 
cold  words,  we  do  not  admire  the  new  king  for 
his  seriousness,  because  we  are  sensible  of  a 
lack  of  aesthetic  harmony.  Aesthetically 
speaking,  Falstaff  did  not  deserve  such  treat- 
ment, or  at  least  Henry  V,  who  inflicts  it  upon 
him,  should  not  be  given  the  credit  of  possess- 
ing an  admirable  moral  character,  which  he 
does  not  possess,  for  it  cannot  be  maintained 
that  he  is  a  great  man,  lofty  in  heart  and  mind, 
when  he  shows  us  that  he  has  failed  to  under- 
stand Falstaff,   and  to  grant  him  that  indul- 


220 


PRACTICAL   ACTION 


GOOD   AND   EVIL 


221 


gence  to  which  he  is  entitled,  after  so  lengthy  a 
companionship.  Falstaff's  friends  know  that 
poor  Sir  John,  although  he  has  tried  to  put  a 
good  face  on  his  cruel  reception  by  his  young 
friend,  is  unconsolable  in  the  face  of  this  in- 
human estrangement,  this  chill  repulse  : 

"  The  king  hath  run  bad  humours  in  the  knight, 
His  heart  is  fracted  and  corroborate." 

And  Mistress  Quickly,  although  a  woman  of 
bad  character  and  a  procuress,  shows  that  she 
possesses  a  better  heart  and  a  better  intellect 
than  the  great  king,  when  she  attends  the  dying 
Sir  John  with  feminine  solicitude.  The  nar- 
rative, of  which  we  had  occasion  to  quote  the 
first  phrase  above,  continues  in  the  following 
pitiful  strain: 

**  'A  parted  even  just  between  twelve  and  one, 
even  at  the  turning  of  the  tide :  for  after  I  saw 
him  fumble  with  the  sheets,  and  play  with 
flowers  and  smile  upon  his  fingers  ends,  I  knew 
there  was  but  one  way;  for  his  nose  was  as 
sharp  as  a  pen,  and  'a  babbled  of  green  fields. 
'  How  now,  Sir  John,'  quoth  I,  '  what,  man  I  be 
o'  good  cheer.'  So  'a  cried  out  *  God,  God, 
God,'  three  or  four  times.  Now  I,  to  comfort 
him,  bid  him  'a  should  not  think  of  God;  I 


hoped  there  was  no  need  to  trouble  himself 
with  any  such  thoughts  yet.  So  'a  bade  me  lay 
more  clothes  on  his  feet :  I  put  my  hand  into 
the  bed  and  felt  them,  and  they  were  as  cold  as 
any  stone;  then  I  felt  to  his  knees,  and  so  up- 
ward and  upward,  and  all  was  as  cold  as  any 
stone."  And  since  the  friends  of  the  tavern 
have  heard  that  he  raved  of  sack,  of  his  fa- 
vourite sweet  sack,  Mistress  Quickly  confirms 
that  it  was  so ;  and  when  they  add  that  he  raved 
of  women,  she  denies  it,  thus  defending  in  her 
own  way  the  chastity  of  the  poor  dead  man. 


The  Tragedy  of  Good  and  Evil 

The  three  aspects,  with  which  we  have 
hitherto  dealt,  compose  what  may  be  called  the 
lesser  Shakespeare,  in  contradistinction  to  the 
greater  Shakespeare,  of  whom  we  are  about  to 
speak.  By  "  lesser,"  we  do  not  wish  to  sug- 
gest that  the  works  thus  designated  are  artistic- 
ally weak  and  imperfect,  because  there  are 
among  them  some  true  masterpieces,  nor  that 
they  are  less  perfect  by  comparison  with  others, 
because  every  true  work  of  art  is  incomparable 
and   contains   in   itself   its  proper  perfection. 


222 


GOOD   AND   EVIL 


GOOD   AND   EVIL 


223 


What  is  intended  to  be  conveyed  is  that  they 
are  **  less  complex/*  in  the  same  way  as  the 
sentiment  of  a  mature  or  an  old  man  is  dis- 
tinguished by  complexity  of  experiences  from 
that  of  a  young  man,  which  is  not  for  that  rea- 
son less  genuine.  There  are  major  and  minor 
works  in  this  sense  in  the  production  of  poets 
and  of  all  artists;  and  in  this  sense  the  greater 
works  themselves  of  the  various  historical 
epochs  stand  to  one  another  in  the  relation  of 
greater  or  less  richness,  although  each  one  is  an 
entire  world  and  each  is  most  beautiful  and  in- 
comparable in  itself.  In  the  case  of  Shake- 
speare, the  distinction  has  already  been  approx- 
imately made  by  the  common  accord  of  readers 
and  critics.  It  is  among  things  accepted  and 
we  have  acted  upon  this  assumption. 

Whoever,  for  example,  passes  from  the  most 
excellent  "  historical  plays  ''  to  Macbeth,  is  im- 
mediately sensible,  not  only  of  the  diversity, 
but  also  of  the  greater  complexity,  proper  to 
the  new  work  which  he  has  begun  to  study.  In 
the  former,  we  find  a  vision  that  might  be  de- 
scribed in  general  terms,  as  psychological  or 
practical;  in  the  latter,  the  vision  is  wider,  it 
seems  to  be  almost  philosophical,  yet  it  does 
not    exclude    the   particular    psychological    or 


practical  vision  of  the  former,  but  includes  it 
within  itself.  In  the  historical  plays,  we  find 
individuals,  powerful  yet  limited,  as  we  find 
them  when  we  consider  the  social  competition 
and  the  political  struggles  of  the  day;  in  the 
great  plays,  the  characters  are  more  than  in- 
dividuals; they  represent  eternal  positions  of 
the  human  spirit.  In  the  former,  the  plot 
hinges  upon  the  acquisition  or  loss  of  a  throne, 
or  of  some  other  worldly  object;  in  the  latter, 
there  is  also  this  external  gain  or  loss,  but  over 
and  above  it  the  winning  or  losing  of  the  soul 
itself,  the  strife  of  good  and  evil  at  the  heart  of 
things. 

Evil :  but  if  this  evil  were  so  altogether  and 
openly,  if  it  were  altogether  base  and  repug- 
nant, the  tragedy  would  be  finished  before  it 
had  begun.  But  evil  was  called  greatness  for 
Macbeth:  that  greatness,  which  the  fatal  sis- 
ters had  prophesied  to  him  and  the  destined 
course  of  events  immediately  begins  to  bestow, 
pointing  out  to  him  that  all  the  rest  is  both 
near  and  certain,  provided  that  he  does  not  re- 
main passive,  but  extends  his  hand  to  grasp  it. 
It  shines  before  Macbeth,  as  a  beautiful  and 
luminous  idea  shines  before  an  artist,  assuming 
for  this  warlike  and  masterful  man,  the  form 


224 


GOOD   AND   EVIL 


GOOD   AND   EVIL 


225 


MH  ! 


of  power,  supreme,  sovereign  power.  Shall  he 
miss  the  mark?  Shall  he  fail  of  the  mission  of 
his  being?  Shall  he  not  harken  to  the  call  of 
Destiny?  The  idea  fascinates  him:  nothing 
now  is  but  what  is  not  in  his  eyes;  it  also  fas- 
cinates and  draws  along  with  it  his  wife,  his 
second  self,  who  has  instantly  and  with  yet 
more  irresistible  violence,  thrown  herself  into 
the  non-existing,  which  creates  itself  and  al- 
ready exists. 

**  Thy  letters,"  (she  says),  "have  transported  me  be- 
yond 
This  ignorant  present,  and  I  feel  now 
The  future  in  the  instant." 

The  idea,  for  her,  is  visible  to  the  eye,  it  is 
**  the  golden  circle,''  which  "  fate  and  meta- 
physical aid,"  appear  already  to  have  placed 
upon  her  brow.  The  two  tremble  together,  as 
at  the  springs  of  being,  in  the  abode  of  the 
mysterious  Mothers.  They  are  both  doers  and 
sufferers  in  a  process  of  things,  in  the  appear- 
ance of  a  new  greatness:  they  tremble  in  that 
experience,  at  that  creative  moment  of  daring, 
which  demands  resolute  dedication  of  the  whole 
man. 

But  the  obstacle  towards  the  realisation  of 


their  daring  plan.  Is  not  a  material  obstacle, 
nor  is  it  the  cowardice  that  sometimes  attacks 
the  bravest;  it  is  a  good  of  a  different  sort,  not 
less  vigorous,  but  of  a  more  lofty  quality,  gentle 
and  serene,  planted  in  the  heart  of  Macbeth 
and  called  by  the  name  of  loyalty,  duty,  jus- 
tice, respect  for  the  being  of  others,  human 
piety.     Thus  he  feels  himself  thrown  at  once 
into  confusion  by  the  idea  that  has  flashed  be- 
fore him,  so  great  is  the  savage  desire,  which 
it  has  set  alight  in  his  breast,  and  such  on  the 
other  hand  the  reverence  which  the  other  idea 
inspires    into    his    deeper    being,    and    against 
which  he  prepares  for  a  desperate  struggle. 
The  supernatural  challenge  keeps  undulating  in 
his  mind,  now  divine,  now  diabolical:  cannot  he 
ill,  cannot  be  good.     But  his  wife,  in  whom  the 
power  of  desire  displays  itself  as  absolute  and 
whose    determination    of    will    is    rectilinear, 
knowing  not  struggle  or  only  struggles  speedily 
and  completely  suppressed,  his  wife,  is  ready 
to  take  his  place,  when  he  shows  his  weak  side, 
or  at  the  moments  of  his  vacillation.     In  the 
logical  clarity  of  vision  that  comes  to  her  as  the 
result  of  the  clearness  of  view  with  which  she 
contemplates  the  achievement  of  her  end,  she 
has  discovered  an  element  of  danger.     It  is 


226 


GOOD   AND   EVIL 


GOOD   AND   EVIL 


227 


concealed  in  the  "  milk  of  human  kindness," 
circulating  in  the  blood  of  Macbeth,  whereby 
he  would  attain  to  greatness,  without  staining 
himself  with  crime.  Having  discovered  the 
cause  of  the  weakness,  she  applies  the  remedy. 
This  does  not  consist  in  making  a  frontal  at- 
tack upon  his  moral  consciousness,  or  by  nega- 
ting it,  but  in  exciting  or  strengthening  the  will 
for  action,  the  will  pure  and  simple,  taking 
pleasure  in  itself  alone,  by  making  it  feel  the 
necessity  of  expressing  in  action  what  seems  to 
it  to  be  beautiful  and  delightful,  and  by  making 
It  ashamed  of  not  knowing  how  to  remain  at  the 
level  of  the  desire  which  it  has  encouraged,  of 
the  plan  that  it  has  formed.  Macbeth  holds 
back  troubled,  because,  though  he  is  as  bold  as 
man  can  be  in  facing  danger,  he  yet  feels  that 
the  deed  now  required  of  him  would  take  away 
from  him  the  very  character  of  man;  but  for 
his  wife,  that  deed  would  make  of  him  more 
than  a  man.  The  sophistry  of  the  will,  to  the 
aid  of  which  comes  the  conquering  seduction  of 
desire,  exercises  its  irresistible  action  and  the 
deed  is  accomplished. 

It  is  accomplished,  but  with  it,  as  Macbeth 
says  to  himself,  nothing  is  accomplished  or  con- 
cluded: the  same  atrocious  discord,  which  ap- 


peared with  the  first  thought  of  the  crime,  and 
which  has  accompanied  its  preparation  and  ex- 
ecution, continues  to  act,  and  Macbeth  is  never 
able  to  get  the  better  of  it,  being  incapable  both 
of  achieving  insensibility  to  the  pricks  of  con- 
science and  at  the  same  time  of  repentance. 
He  persists  in  his  attitude  of  the  first  moment, 
drunk  with  greatness,  devoured  with  remorse. 
He  neither  can  nor  will  go  back,  and  does  go 
forward ;  but  he  goes  forward,  increasing  both 
the  terms  of  the  discord,  the  sum  of  his  crimes, 
and  the  torment  of  his  conscience.  No  way  of 
salvation  opens  itself  before  him:  neither  the 
complete  redemption  of  the  good,  nor  the  op- 
posite redemption  of  the  completeness  of  evil; 
neither  the  tears  that  relieve  the  ferocious  soul, 
nor  absolute  hardening  of  the  heart.  If  he  had 
to  blame  anything  for  his  course  of  crimes  and 
torments,  he  would  blame  life  itself,  that  fitful 
fever,  that  stupidity  of  life,  which  is 

"  a  tale 
told  by   an  idiot,   full  of   sound  and  fury, 
signifying  nothing.'* 

And  if  there  is  any  image  that  attracts  him 
from  time  to  time,  filling  him  with  the  suavity 
of  desire,  it  is  that  of  sleep,  and  beyond  that, 
the  great  final,  dissolving  sleep,  which  Duncan, 


228 


GOOD   AND  EVIL 


'i1 


whom    he    has    slaughtered,    already    enjoys. 
Thus  Macbeth  consumes  himself,  and  his  other 
self,  his  wife,  consumes  herself  also,  in  a  differ- 
ent way,  because  what  was  in  him  an  implacable 
call,  to  which  he  could  do  violence,  but  could  not 
suppress,  presents  itself  to  his  wife  as  the  fas- 
cinating idea  had  presented  itself  to  her,  in 
sensible  images,  and  therefore  as  an  obscure 
rebellion    of    nature.     For    this    reason,    the 
woman  from  whose  hand  the  dagger  had  fallen, 
when    she    faced   the    sleeping    Duncan,    who 
seemed  to  her  to  be  her  father,  wanders  in  the 
night,  vainly  seeking  to  remove  from  her  small 
hands  the  nauseating  odour  of  blood,  which,  it 
seems  to  her,  still  clings  to  them.     Both  are 
already  dead,  before  they  die,  owing  to  these 
bitter,   long,    continuous,   internal   shocks   and 
corrosions.     Macbeth  receives  the  news  of  the 
death  of  her  who  was  his  wife,  of  her  whom  he 
had  loved  and  who  loved  him,  with  the  desolate 
coldness  of  one  who  has  renounced  all  par- 
ticular affections,  and  the  life  of  the  affections 
themselves.     Yet  he  will  not  die  like  a  **  Ro- 
man fool,"  he  will  not  slay  himself,  but  will 
provoke  death  in  battle,  still  seeking,  not  death, 
but  victory.     For  even  in  his  last  moments,  the 
internal  conflict  in  him  has  not  ceased,  even  in 


GOOD   AND   EVIL 


229 


■ 


those  Instants,  the  impulse  for  greatness  rules 
him  and  urges  him  on.  To  kill  himself  would 
be  to  admit  that  he  was  wrong,  and  he  does  not 
admit  to  himself  that  he  was  wrong  or  right: 
his  tragedy  lies  in  this  incapacity  to  hold  him- 
self right  or  wrong ;  it  is  the  tragedy  of  reality 
contemplated  at  the  moment  of  conflict  and 
before  the  solution  has  been  obtained.  There- 
fore he  dies  austerely,  representing  a  sacred 
mystery,  covered  with  religious  horror. 

In  Macbeth,  the  good  appears  only  as  re- 
venge taken  by  the  good,  as  remorse,  punish- 
ment.    It    is    not    personified.     The    amiable 
king  Duncan  glides  along  on  the  outside   of 
things,  unsuspectful  of  betrayals,  without  an 
inkling  of  what  is  passing  in  the  mind  of  Mac- 
beth,  whom  he  has  rewarded  and  exalted.     The 
honest  Macduff,  reestablisher  of  peace  and  jus- 
tice,  is   a   warrior  pitted   against   a   warrior. 
Lady  Macduff  and  her  son  are  innocent  victims, 
who  flee  the  knife  of  the  murderers  In  vain. 
The  boy  with  his  childish  logic  expresses  his 
wonderment  that  the  good  In  the  world  does  not 
choke  the  evil  and  replies  to  his  mother,  who 
says  that  the  honest  man  must  do  justice  upon 
wicked  men  and  traitors :     "  Then  the  liars  and 
swearers  are   fools;   for   there   are   liars   and 


230 


GOOD  AND  EVIL 


GOOD  AND  EVIL 


231 


\j 


swearers  enow  to  beat  the  honest  men  and 
hang  up  them.    .  .  ." 

In  King  Lear,  that  tempestuous  drama, 
which  is  nothing  but  a  sequence  of  betrayals 
and  horrible  torments,  goodness  is  imperson- 
ated and  takes  the  name  of  Cordelia,  shining 
in  the  midst  of  the  tempest,  as  when  the  sky 
is  dark  and  we  look,  not  upon  the  darkness, 
but  upon  the  single  star  that  is  scintillating 
there. 

An  infinite  hatred  for  deceitful  wickedness 
has  inspired  this  work:  egoism  pure  and  simple, 
cruelty,  perversity,  arouse  repugnance  and  hor- 
ror, but  do  not  directly  lead  to  that  tremendous 
doubt  as  to  the  non-existence  of  goodness,  or 
still  less  as  to  its  not  being  recognisable  and 
separable  from  its  contrary,  since  that  moral  de- 
ceit, which  takes  the  appearance  of  rectitude, 
generosity,  loyalty,  and  when  it  has  realised  its 
purpose,  discovers  itself  as  impure  cupidity, 
aridity,  hardness  of  heart,  which  alone  were 
present  throughout.  Poor  humanity,  which 
has  thus  allowed  itself  to  be  deceived,  enters 
into  such  a  fury,  when  it  has  discovered  its  il- 
lusion, both  against  itself  and  against  the 
world  that  has  permitted  so  atrocious  an  illusion 
or  delusion,  as  to  reach  the  point  of  madness. 


And  humanity  goes  by  the  name  of  King  Lear, 
proud,  imperious,  full  of  confidence  in  himself 
and  in  his  own  power  and  strength  of  judgment, 
quite  sure  that  others  will  agree  with  his  wishes, 
all  the  more  so,  since  he  is  their  benefactor  and 
they  owe  him,  not  only  obedience,  but  duty  and 
gratitude.     King  Lear  is  a  creation  of  pity  and 
of  sarcasm:  pitiful  in  his  cries  of  injured  pride, 
of  old  age  deserted,  in  the  shadow  of  the  mad- 
ness that  is  falling  upon  him.     He  has  been 
sarcastically,   though   sorrowfully,    realised  by 
his  creator,  because  he  was  mad  before  he  be- 
came mad,  and  the  clown  who  keeps  him  com- 
pany, has  been  and  is  more  serious  and  clear- 
sighted than  he.     But  the  creative  impulse  of 
Shakespeare  goes  so  deeply  into  the  heart  of 
reality,  or  rather  it  creates  so  great  a  reality, 
that  he  neglects  everything  suggestive  of  the 
obvious,  vulgar  side  of  things,  as  seen  from  an 
average   and  mediocre  point  of  view.     King 
Lear  assumes  gigantic  proportions  in  his  sor- 
row, in  his  madness,  in  his  piteousness,  in  his 
sarcasm,  because  the  pas«ion  that  shakes  him  is 
gigantic.     The    figures   of    the    two    deceitful 
daughters  who  are  opposed  to  him,  are  also 
gigantic,  especially  Goneril,  to  whom  Regan, 
who   is  somewhat  the  younger,   gives   relief. 


232 


GOOD   AND  EVIL 


I 


Gonerirs  are  the  guiding  mind  and  the  initiat- 
ing will;  she  it  is,  who  first  counsels  and  in- 
structs her  sister,  who  first  faces  and  dominates 
her  father,  and  who  first  recognises  her  own 
equal  in  the  iron  will  of  the  evil  Edmund,  loving 
him  and  despising  her  own  husband,  so  weak  in 
his  goodness,  strives  with  her  sister  for  the 
loved  one,  finally  slaying  her  sister  and  imme- 
diately afterwards,  herself.  Regan  has  here 
and  there  a  fugitive  moment,  not  of  piety,  but 
of  hesitation  and  almost  of  suggestion,  and 
shows  herself  to  be  the  less  strong,  just  because 
she  always  allows  herself  to  be  led  by  the  other. 
Each  of  them,  although  both  are  thus  power- 
fully individuated,  express  the  same  force  of 
egoism  without  scruples,  untamed  and  extreme 
in  its  boundlessness.  Their  personalities  are 
concentrated,  felt  and  expressed,  with  the 
whole-hearted  hatred  of  an  expert. 

Yet  we  come  to  think  that  in  this  tragedy 
the  inspiration  of  love  —  of  immense  love  — 
is  equal  to  or  greater  than  the  inspiration  of 
hate.  Perhaps  intensity  of  hatred,  making 
more  intense  the  attraction  of  goodness,  helped 
to  create  the  figure  of  Cordelia,  which  is  not 
a  symbol  or  allegory  of  abstract  goodness,  but 
is  all  compact  of  goodness,  of  a  need  for  purity, 


GOOD  AND   EVIL 


233 


for  tenderness,  for  adoration,  which  has  here 
thrown  its  real  and  unreal  appearance,  an  ap- 
pearance which  has  poetical  reality.  Cordelia 
is  goodness  itself  in  its  original  well-spring, 
limpid  and  shining  as  it  gushes  forth :  she  repre- 
sents moral  beauty  and  is  therefore  both 
courageous  and  hesitating,  modest  and  digni- 
fied, ready  to  disdain  contests,  where  they  are 
of  no  avail,  but  also  ready  to  fight  bravely, 
when  to  do  so  is  of  service.  Hers  is  a  true  and 
complete  goodness,  not  simply  softness,  mild- 
ness and  indulgence.  Words  have  been  so 
misused  for  purposes  of  deceit  that  she  has  al- 
most abandoned  that  inadequate  means  of  com- 
munication :  she  is  silent,  when  speech  would  be 
vain  or  would  set  her  truthfulness  on  the  same 
level  as  the  lies  of  others.  But  since  she  has 
clear  knowledge  and  a  fine  sense  of  her  own 
self  and  its  contrary,  she  does  not  allow  her- 
self to  be  confused  or  enticed  by  false  splen- 
dours. "  /  know  you  what  you  are/'  she  says, 
looking  her  sisters  in  the  eyes,  as  she  takes 
leave  of  them.  And  since  goodness  is  also 
sympathetic  intelligence,  she  understands,  par- 
dons and  lovingly  assists  her  old  father,  so 
unjust  and  so  wanting  in  understanding  toward 
herself.     And  since  goodness  cannot  adopt  the 


I 


234 


GOOD   AND   EVIL 


GOOD  AND   EVIL 


235 


form  of  blind  passion,  even  In  the  act  of  defence 
and  offence,  and  even  when  it  refuses  to  tolerate 
evil,  is  forced  to  bow  to  the  law  of  severe  res- 
ignation, which  governs  the  world,  and  thus 
entrusts  her  with  its  best  duty,  so  Cordelia  does 
not  burst  into  a  rage  against  the  wickedness  of 
her  sisters,  when  she  hears  how  King  Lear  has 
been  driven  out  and  despised,  but  at  once  re- 
signs herself  to  patience  in  the  affliction,  "  like,'* 
as  says  one  who  has  seen  her  at  that  moment, 
to 

"  Sunshine  and  rain  at  once :  her  smiles  and  tears 
Were  like  a  better  day." 

There  are  other  personages  in  the  play,  who 
affirm  the  reality  of  good  against  the  false  as- 
sertion of  it:  the  pure  and  faithful  Kent,  the 
loyal  though  unintelligent  Gloucester,  the  brave 
Edgar,  the  weak  but  honest  Duke  of  Albany, 
the  husband  of  Goneril,  who  says : 

"  Where  I  could  not  be  honest, 
I  never  yet  was  valiant." 

Finally  the  perfidious  Edmund,  when  he  sees 
himself  near  death,  hastens  to  accomplish  a 
good  action  and  to  pay  homage  to  virtue.  But 
all  these  belong  to  the  earth:  Cordelia  is  on 
the  earth,  earthly  herself  and  mortal,  but  she 


is  made  of  celestial  substance,  of  purest  hu- 
manity, which  is  therefore  divine.  It  has  oc- 
curred to  me  to  compare  her  with  the  Soul, 
whom  Friar  Jacob  likened  to  the  only  daughter 
and  heiress  of  the  King  of  France,  and  whom 
her  father,  for  that  he  loved  her  infinitely,  had 
adorned  "  with  a  white  stole,"  and  her  fame 
flew  **  to  every  land." 

No  greater  spiritual  triumph  can  be  con- 
ceived than  that  of  Cordelia,  throughout  the 
drama,  from  the  first  scene  to  the  last,  although 
she  first  appears  as  denied  and  rejected  by  her 
father,  and  later,  when  she  comes  with  arms 
to  the  aid  of  the  unfortunate  Lear  against  the 
infernal  sisters  and  the  treacherous  Edmund,  is 
conquered,  thrown  into  prison  and  there 
strangled  by  the  hangman.  Why?  Why  does 
not  goodness  triumph  in  the  material  world? 
And,  why,  thus  conquered,  does  she  increase  in 
beauty,  evoke  ever  more  disconsolate  desire, 
until  she  is  finally  adored  as  something  sacred? 
The  tragedy  of  King  Lear  is  penetrated 
throughout  with  this  unexpressed  yet  anguished 
interrogation,  so  full  of  the  sense  of  the  misery 
of  life.  The  king,  acquiring  new  sensibility 
in  his  madness,  as  though  a  veil  had  been  with- 
drawn from  before  his  eyes,  sees  and  receives 


236 


GOOD   AND   EVIL 


if 


for  the  first  time  in  himself,  suffering  humanity, 
weeping  and  trembling,  Hke  a  child,  defence- 
less, ill-treated.  The  fool,  who  accompanies 
him,  sings,  along  with  much  else,  his  prophecy 
to  the  effect  that  when  calumnies  cease,  when 
kings  are  punished,  and  usurers  and  thieves 
give  up  their  trade,  then  all  the  kingdom  of 
Albion  will  be  in  great  confusion.  But  the  sor- 
row of  sorrows  is  that  of  Lear,  when,  having 
found  Cordelia,  he  dreams  of  being  ever  after 
at  her  side,  adoring,  and  sees  the  prison  trans- 
formed into  a  paradise :  they  will  sing,  he  will 
kneel  before  her,  they  will  pray,  and  tell  one 
another  ancient  tales.  But  she  is  brutally  slain 
before  his  eyes  and  her  dead  body  lies  in  his 
arms,  as  he  vainly  strives  to  reanimate  it,  and 
he  too  dies,  uttering  the  last  cry  of  despera- 
tion: 


"  Thou'lt  come  no  more, 
Never,  never,  never,  never! — " 

In  the  tragedy  of  Othello,  evil  takes  on  an- 
other face,  and  here  the  sentiment  that  answers 
to  it,  is  not  condemnation  mixed  with  pity,  not 
horror  for  hypocrisy  and  cruelty,  but  astonish- 
ment, lago  does  not  represent  evil  done 
through  a  dream  of  greatness,  or  evil  for  the 


GOOD   AND   EVIL 


237 


egoistic  satisfaction  of  his  own  desires,  but  evil 
for  evil's  sake,  done  almost  as  though  through 
an  artistic  need,  in  order  to  realise  his  own  be- 
ing and  feel  it  strong,  dominating  and  destruc- 
tive, even  in  the  subordinate  social  condition 
in  which  he  is  placed.  Certainly,  lago,  in  what 
he  says,  washes  it  to  be  believed  or  makes  him- 
self believe  that  he  is  aiming  only  at  his  **  own 
advantage,"  as  Guicciardini  would  have  said, 
and  that  he  despises  those  who  have  different 
rule  of  conduct  and  manage  to  live  honestly, 
the  honest  knaves.  But  the  truth  is  that  he 
does  not  obtain  any  material  advantage  for 
himself,  and  that  the  path  he  has  selected  was 
not  necessary  for  that  object  and  does  not  lead 
to  it.  Feelings  of  vengeance  for  injustices  and 
affronts  suffered  lead  to  it  still  less,  though  at 
times  he  says  they  do,  and  wishes  it  to  be  be- 
lieved or  tries  to  believe  it  himself.  What  re- 
sults from  his  acts  is  evil  as  an  end  in  itself, 
arising  from  a  turbid  desire  to  prove  himself 
superior  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  to  delude  and 
to  make  it  dance  to  the  tune  of  his  own  mind, 
and  in  proof  of  this  to  bring  it  to  ruin.  The 
fact  that  he  gives  various  reasons,  with  the 
object  of  justifying  and  of  explaining  his  acts, 
demonstrates  that  he  himself  failed  to  under^ 


I? 


;| 


i 


238 


GOOD   AND   EVIL 


GOOD  AND  EVIL 


239 


II 


ii 


Stand  that  peculiar  form  of  evil  which  pos- 
sessed his  spirit.  None  of  those  about  him  sus- 
pect him :  not  Othello,  a  simple,  impetuous  sol- 
dier, who  understands  open  strife  and  plotting, 
but  both  in  war  and  between  one  enemy  and 
another.  He  is  quite  unable  to  conceive  this 
refined  and  intellectual  degradation.  Desde- 
mona,  too,  a  young  woman  newly  married,  re- 
joicing in  the  happiness  of  realized  affection 
and  disposed  to  find  everyone  about  her  good 
and  to  make  everyone  happy,  is  unsuspicious, 
as  also  is  Cassio,  who  trusts  lago,  as  a  brave 
and  loyal  comrade,  and  his  wife,  the  experi- 
enced Emilia,  who  knows  him  from  long  habit. 
The  epithets  of  "good  lago,''  of  "honest 
lago  "  ring  through  the  whole  play  and  are 
a  bitter  and  ironical  comment  underlining  the 
illusion  that  possesses  them  all.  He  is  weav- 
ing, without  reason,  and  as  it  were  for  amuse- 
ment, a  horrible  web  of  calumnies,  of  moral  and 
physical  tortures  and  of  death:  a  good  and 
generous  man,  rendered  blind  and  mad  with 
jealousy  and  injured  honour,  is  thus  led  to 
murder  his  innocent  and  beloved  wife.  Pity 
and  terror  arise  together  in  the  soul,  as  we  see 
Othello  poisoned  drop  by  drop,  excited,  changed 
into  a  wild  beast :  one  feels  that  in  Desdemona 


the  warrior  possessed  all  the  sweetness  and  all 
the  force  of  life,  the  happiness  on  which  re- 
posed all  the  rest,  and  that  in  her  person  he 
had  found  all  that  one  can  conceive  as  most 
noble,  most  gentle  and  most  pure  in  the  world. 
When  he  suspects  that  she  has  betrayed  him, 
not  only  is  he  pierced  with  sensual  jealousy, 
(this  too  there  is,  certainly),  but  injured  in 
what  he  holds  sacred,  and  therefore  the  death 
that  he  deals  to  Desdtemona  is  not  simply  venge- 
ance for  the  shame  done  him,  but  above  all 
expiation  and  purification,  as  though  he  wished 
to  purify  the  world  of  such  impurity,  and  to 
cleanse  her  from  a  stain,  which  irremediably 
defiled  her.  "  O,  the  pity  of  all  this,  lago! 
O,  lago,  the  pity  of  all  this  1 ''  He  kisses  her 
before  he  kills  her,  kissing  his  own  ideal,  "which 
he  lays  at  that  moment  in  the  sepulchre.  But 
he  still  trembles  with  love,  and  perhaps  hopes 
somehow  to  get  her  back  and  to  be  united  with 
her  forever,  by  means  of  that  bloody  sacrifice. 
Desdemona  is  not  aware  of  the  fury  raging 
around  her,  sure  as  she  is  of  her  love  and  of 
Othello's.  Owing  to  her  very  innocence,  she 
affords  involuntary  incentives  to  the  jealousy 
of  Othello  and  easy  occasion  to  the  artifice  of 
lago.     Her   very  unconsciousness   makes   her 


f'if^ 


240 


GOOD   AND  EVIL 


ufl 


fate  the  more  moving.  Such  Is  the  infamy  of 
the  crime  thus  accomplished  against  her,  that 
the  prosaic,  shifty  wife  of  lago  becomes  sub- 
lime with  indignation  and  courage,  when  she 
sees  her  dying,  rising  to  poetic  nobility  and  de- 
fying every  menace.  Transpierced  by  her  hus- 
band, she  falls  at  the  side  of  her  mistress  and 
dying  sings  the  willow  song,  which  she  had 
caught  from  the  lips  of  Desdemona.  Othello 
also  dies,  when  the  deceit  has  been  revealed  to 
him.  The  leader  whom  Venice  had  held  in 
great  honour  and  in  whom  she  had  reposed 
complete  faith,  charging  him  with  commands 
and  governments,  is  now  nothing  but  a  wretch 
deserving  punishment.  But  in  slaying  himself, 
he  returns  in  memory  to  what  he  was,  substi- 
tuting* that  image  of  himself  for  his  present 
misery,  and  using  the  memory  of  the  warrior 
that  he  was,  to  drive  the  sword  deeper  into  his 
throat. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  rallying-point  or  cen- 
tre of  the  whole  play  is  not  the  ruin  of  the 
valiant  Othello,  not  the  cruel  fate  of  the  gentle 
Desdemona,  but  the  work  of  lago,  of  that 
demidevil,  of  whom  one  might  ask  in  vain, 
why,  as  Othello  asked,  why  he  had  thus 
noosed  the  bodies  and  souls  of  those  men,  who 


TRAGEDY  OF  THE  WILL     241 

had  never   nourished   any   suspicion   of   him? 

"Demand  me  nothing;  what  you  know,  you  know 
From  this  time  forth  I  never  will  speak  word." 

This  was  the  answer  to  the  poet  from  that 
most  mysterious  form  of  evil,  when  he  met 
with  it,  as  he  was  contemplating  the  universe : 
perversity,  which  is  an  end  and  a  joy  to  it- 
self. 


The  Tragedy  of  the  W^ill 

The  tragedy  of  the  good  and  evil  will,  is 
sometimes  followed,  sometimes  preceded  by 
another  tragedy,  that  of  the  will  itself.  Here 
the  will,  Instead  of  holding  the  passions  in  con- 
trol—  making  Its  footstool  of  them  —  allows 
itself  to  be  dominated  by  them  in  their  onrush; 
or  it  seeks  the  good,  but  remains  uncertain, 
dissatisfied  as  to  the  path  chosen;  or  finally, 
when  It  fails  to  find  Its  own  way,  a  way  of  some 
sort,  and  does  not  know  what  to  think  of  Itself 
or  of  the  world.  It  preys  upon  itself  In  this 
empty  tension. 

A  typical  form  of  this  first  condition  of  the 
will   Is   voluptuousness,    which    overspreads   a 


242     TRAGEDY   OF   THE  WILL 

soul  and  makes  itself  mistress  there,  inebriating, 
sending  to  sleep,  destroying  and  liquefying  the 
will.  When  we  think  of  that  enchanting  sweet- 
ness and  perdition,  the  image  of  death  arises 
at  the  same  instant,  because  it  truly  is  death,  if 
not  physical,  yet  always  internal  and'  moral 
death,  death  of  the  spirit,  without  which  man 
is  already  a  corpse  in  process  of  decomposition. 
The  tragedy  of  Anthony  and  Cleopatra  is  com- 
posed of  the  violent  sense  of  pleasure,  in  its 
power  to  bind  and  to  dominate,  coupled  with 
a  shudder  at  its  abject  effects  of  dissolution 
and  of  death. 

He  moves  in  a  world  all  kisses  and  caresses, 
languors,  sounds,  perfumes,  shimmer  of  gold 
and  splendid  garments,  flashing  of  lights  or  si- 
lence of  deep  shadows,  enjoyment,  now  ecsta- 
tic, now  spasmodic  and  furious.  Cleopatra  is 
queen  of  this  world,  avid  for  pleasure,  which 
she  herself  bestows,  diffusing  around  her  its 
quivering  sense,  instilling  a  frantic  desire  for  it 
into  all,  offering  herself  as  an  example  and  an 
incitement,  but  while  conferring  it  on  others, 
remaining  herself  a  regal  and  almost  a  mystical 
personage.  A  Roman  who  has  plunged  into 
that  world,  spoke  then  of  her,  astonished  at 
her  power,  demoniac  or  divine : 


TRAGEDY  OF  THE  WILL     243 

"  Age  cannot  wither  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety." 

Cleopatra  asks  for  songs  and  music,  that  she 
may  melt  into  that  sea  of  melody,  which 
heightens  pleasure: 

**  Give  me  some  music ;  music,  moody  food 
Of  us  that  trade  in  love !  " 

She  knows  how  to  toy  with  men,  keeping  their 
interest  alive  by  her  denials: 

"  If  you  find  him  sad, 
Say  I  am  dancing;  if  in  mirth,  report 
That  I  am  sudden  sick." 

Her  words  express  sensual  fascination  in  its 

most  terrible  form : 

"  There  is  gold,  and  here 
My  bluest  veins  to  kiss ;  a  hand  that  kings 
Have  lipped,  and  trembled  kissing." 

All  around  her  dance  to  the  same  tune  and 
imitate  the  rhythmic  folly  of  her  life.  Note 
the  scene  of  the  two  waiting  women,  who  are 
joking  about  their  loves,  their  future  marriages, 
and  the  manner  of  their  deaths,  with  the  sooth- 
sayer. Listen  to  the  first  words  of  Carminia, 
so  mirthful  and  caressing  in  her  playful 
coquetry:  "Lord  Alexas-,  sweet  Alexas,  most 
anything  Alexas,  almost  most  absolute  Alexas, 


244     TRAGEDY  OF  THE  WILL 

where's  the  soothsayer  that  you  praised  so  to 
the  queen?  O,  that  I  knew  this  husband, 
which,  you  say,  must  charge  his  horns  with 
garlands !''... 

Anthony  is  seized  and  dragged  into  this  ver- 
tiginous course  of  pungent  pleasures,  as  soon  as 
he  appears.  In  his  inebriation  the  rest  of  the 
world,  all  the  active,  real  world,  seems  heavy, 
prosaic,  coiitemptible  and  displeasing.  The 
very  name  of  Rome  has  no  longer  any  power 
over  him. 

"  Let  Rome  in  Tiber  melt,  and  the  wide  arch 
Of  the  ranged  empire  fall!     Here  is  my  space. 
Kingdoms  are  clay:  one  dungy  earth  alike  i 

Feeds  beast  as  man." 

As  he  folds  Cleopatra  in  his  arms,  he  feels  that 
they  form  a  pair  who  make  life  more  noble, 
and  that  in  them  alone  it  assumes  real  signifi- 
cance. 

This  feeling  is  not  love:  we  have  already 
called  it  by  its  proper  name :  voluptuousness. 
Cleopatra  loves  pleasure  and  caprice,  and  the 
dominion,  which  both  of  them  afford  her;  she 
also  loves  Anthony,  because  he  is,  and  in  so  far 
as  he  is,  part  of  her  pleasures  and  caprices,  and 
serves  her  as  an  instrument  of  dominion.     She 


TRAGEDY   OF  THE  WILL     245 

busies  herself  with  keeping  him  bound  to  her, 
struggles  to  retain  him  when  he  removes  him- 
self from  her,  but  she  always  has  an  eye  to 
other  things,  which  are  equally  necessary  for 
her,  even  more  so  than  he,  and  in  order  to  re- 
tain them,  she  would  be  ready  if  necessary  to 
give  Anthony  in  exchange.  Anthony  too,  does 
not  love  her;  he  clearly  sees  her  for  what  she 
is,  imprecates  against  her,  and  enfolds  her  in 
his  embrace  without  forgiveness. 

"Shed  not  a  tear;  give  me  a  kiss: 
Even  this  repays  me." 

Love  demands  union  of  some  sort  between  two 
beings  for  an  objective  end,  with  the  moral 
consent  of  both;  but  here  we  are  outside  moral- 
ity, and  even  outside  the  will.  We  are  caught 
in  the  whirlwind  and  carried  along. 

Anthony  it  is,  who  weakens  and  is  con- 
quered. He  has  lived  an  active  life,  which.  In 
the  present  moment  of  folly,  he  holds  of  no 
account.  He  has  known  war,  political  strife, 
the  government  of  States;  he  has  even  been 
brushed  with  the  wing  of  glory  and  of  vic- 
tory. He  tries  several  times  to  grasp  his 
own  past  and  to  direct  his  future.  He  has 
not    lost   his   ethical   judgment,    for   he    rec- 


m 


246     TRAGEDY   OF  THE  WILL 

ognizes  Cleopatra  as  she  really  is,  bows  re- 
verently before  the  memory   of  Fulvia,   and 
treats  his  new  wife  Octavia,  whom  also  he  will 
abandon,  with  respect.     For  a  brief  moment, 
he  returns  to  the  world  he  once  knew,  takes 
part  in  political  business,  comes  to  terms  with 
his  colleagues  and  rivals.     It  would  seem  that 
he   had  disentangled  himself   from  the  chain 
that  bound  him.     But  the  effort  is  not  lasting, 
the  chain  encircles  him  again ;  vainly  and  with 
ever  declining  power  of  resistance,  he  yields  to 
that  destiny,  which  is  on  the  side  of  Octavius, 
the  man  without  loves,  so  cold  and  so  firm  of 
will.     Bad  fortune  dogs  every  step  of  the  vol- 
uptuary: those   that  surround  him  remark  a 
change  in  his  appearance  from  what  he  was 
formerly.     They  see  him  betray  this  change  by 
uttering  thoughts  that  are  almost  ridiculously 
feeble,  and  making  inane  remarks.     They  are 
led  to  reflect  that  the  mind  of  man  is  nothing 
but  a  part  of  his  fortune  and  that  external 
things  conform  to  things  internal.     He  him- 
self feels  that  he  is  inwardly  dissolving,  and 
compares  himself  to  the  changing  forms  of  the 
clouds,  dissolved  with  a  breath  of  wind,  like 
water  turning  to  water.     Yet  the  man,  who  is 
thus  in  process   of  disaggregation,   was   once 


TRAGEDY  OF  THE  WILL     247 

great,  and  still  affords  flashes  of  greatness, 
bursting  forth  in  feats  of  warlike  prowess,  ac- 
companied with  lofty  speech  and  generous 
actions.  His  generosity  confounds  Enobarbus, 
who  had  deserted  him  and  now  takes  his  own 
life  for  very  shame.  Around  him  are  yet  those 
ready  to  die  for  sake  of  the  affection  that  he 
inspires.  Cleopatra  stands  lower  or  higher: 
she  has  never  known  nor  has  ever  desired  to 
know  any  life  but  that  of  caprice  and  pleasure. 
There  is  logic,  will,  consistency,  in  her  vertig- 
inous abandonment.  She  is  consistent  also  in 
taking  her  own  life,  when  she  sees  that  she 
would  die  in  a  Roman  prison,  thus  escaping 
shame  and  the  mockeries  of  the  triumphant  foe, 
and  selecting  a  death  of  regal  voluptuousness. 
And  with  her  die  her  faithful  handmaids,  by  a 
similar  death;  they  have  known  her  as  their 
queen  and  goddess  of  pleasure,  and  now  as  de- 
spising this  vile  world  and  a  life  no  longer  wor- 
thy of  being  lived,  because  no  longer  beautiful 
and  brilliant.  Carminia,  before  she  slays  her- 
self^  takes  a  last  farewell  of  her  mistress : 

"  Downy  windows  close ; 
And  golden  Phoebus  never  be  beheld 
Of  eyes  again  so  royal!     Your  crown's  awry; 
ril  mend  it,  and  then  play." 


M 


248     TRAGEDY  OF   THE  WILL 

The  tragedy  of  the  will,  which  is  most  poetic- 
ally lofty  in  Anthony  and  Cleopatra,  is  never- 
theless  morally  a  low  form,  that  is  to  say,  it  is 
simple  and  elementary  in  its  roughness,  such  as 
would  manifest  itself  in  a  soldier  like  Anthony, 
the  bloody,  quarrelsome,  pleasure-seeking, 
crapulous  Anthony. 

It  shows  itself  in  an  atmosphere  far  more 
subtle  with  Hamlet.  Hamlet,  the  hero  so 
refined  intellectually,  so  delicate  in  taste,  so 
conscious  of  moral  values,  comes  to  the  ac- 
tion, not  from  the  Roman  forum  or  from  the 
battlefields  of  Gaul  or  Pharsalia,  but  from 
the  University  of  Wittenberg.  In  Hamlet, 
the  seductions  of  the  will  are  altogether  over- 
come; duty  is  no  longer  a  condition,  or  a 
vain  effort,  but  a  spontaneous  and  regular  at- 
titude. The  obstacle  against  which  it  strives 
is  not  external  to  it,  it  is  no  inebriation  of  the 
senses;  it  is  internal,  the  will  itself  in  the  dialec- 
tic of  its  becoming,  in  its  passage  from  medita- 
tion  to  purpose  and  from  purpose  to  action,  in 
its  becoming  will,  true,  concrete,  factual  will. 

Hamlet  has  with  reason  often  been  recog- 
nised as  a  companion  and  precursor  of  Brutus 
in  Julius  Caesar,  a  play  which  differs  from  the 
"  historical  tragedies,''  more  substantially  even 


\ 


TRAGEDY   OF   THE  WILL     249 


than  Anthony  and  Cleopatra,  which  is  restrict- 
ed to  the  practical  activity.  Hamlet  attains  to 
a  more  lofty  significance.  Here  too  we  find  a 
tragedy  of  the  will  in  a  man  whose  ethical  con- 
scientiousness is  not  internally  troubled,  for  he 
lives  upon  a  sublime  plane;  and  here  too  the 
obstacle  arises  from  the  very  bosom  of  the 
will.  Brutus  differs  from  Hamlet^  in  that  he 
comes  to  a  decision  and  acts;  but  his  action  is 
accompanied  with  disgust  and  repugnance  for 
the  impurity  with  which  its  accomplishment 
must  be  stained.  He  reproves,  condemns  and 
abhors  the  political  end  towards  which  Caesar 
is  tending,  but  he  does  not  hate  Caesar;  he 
would  like  to  destroy  that  end,  to  strike  at  the 
soul  of  Caesar,  but  not  to  destroy  his  body  and 
with  it  his  life.  He  bows  reluctantly  to  neces- 
sity and  with  the  others  decides  upon  his  death, 
but  requests  that  honours  should  be  payed  to 
Caesar  dead,  and  spares  Anthony  contrary  to 
the  advice  of  Cassius,  because,  as  he  says,  he  is 
a  priest  bound  to  sacrifice  the  necessary  victim; 
but  he  is  not  a  butcher.  Melancholy  dogs 
every  step  toward  the  achievement  of  his  end. 
He  differs  here  from  Cassius,  who  does  not 
experience  like  scruples  and  delicacy  of  feeling, 
but  desires  the  end,  by  whatever  means.     He 


'i 


250     TRAGEDY   OF   THE  WILL 

differs  too  from  Anthony,  who  discovers  at 
once  the  path  to  tread  and  enters  it;  cautious 
and  resolute,  he  will  triumph  over  him.  He 
finds  everywhere  impurity:  Cassius,  his  friend, 
his  brother,  behaves  in  such  a  way  as  to  make 
him  doubt  his  right  to  shed  the  blood  of  the 
mighty  Julius,  because,  instead  of  that  justice, 
which  he  has  thought  to  promote  and  to  re- 
store by  his  act,  he  now  sees  only  rapine  and 
injustice.  But  if  the  spiritual  greatness  of 
Brutus  shrouds  him  in  sadness,  it  does  not  de- 
prive him  of  the  capacity  for  feeling  and  under- 
standing  human  nature.  His  difference  with 
Cassius  comes  to  an  end  with  his  friend's  sor- 
row, that  friend  who  loves  and  admires  him 
sincerely,  and  yet  cannot  be  other  than  he  is, 
hoping  that  his  friend  will  not  condemn  too  se- 
verely his  faults  and  vices,  but  pass  them  over 
in  indulgent  silence.  The  reconciliation  of  the 
two  is  sealed  when  Brutus  reveals  his  wounded 
heart,  as  he  briefly  tells  his  friend  of  Portia's 
death.  He  enfolds  himself  in  his  grief.  Bru- 
tus IS  among  those  who  have  always  meditated 
upon  death  and  fortified  themselves  with  the 
thought  of  it.  His  suffering  is  not  limited  to 
virtue  forced  into  contamination;  for  he  is 
haunted  by  doubt  unexpressed.     He  feels  that 


TRAGEDY   OF   THE   WILL     251 

man  is  surrounded  with  mystery,  the  mystery 
of  Fate,  or,  as  we  should  say,  with  the  mystery 
surrounding  the  future  history  of  the  world; 
he  seems  to  be  anxiously  asking  of  himself  if 
the  way  that  he  has  chosen  and  followed  is  the 
best  and  wisest  way,  or  whether  some  evil 
genius  has  not  introduced  itself  into  his  life,  in 
order  to  drive  him  to  perdition?  He  hears  at 
night  the  voice  of  the  evil  genius  amid  the 
sounds  and  songs  that  should  give  rest  and  re- 
pose to  his  agitated  spirit.  He  prepares  him- 
self to  face  the  coming  battle,  with  the  same  in- 
vincible sadness.  It  is  the  day  that  will  bring 
to  an  end  the  work  begun  on  the  Ides  of  March. 
He  takes  leave  of  Cassius,  doubtful  if  he  will 
ever  see  him  again,  saying  farewell  to  him  for 
ever : 


**  If  we  do  meet  again,  why,  we  shall  smile ; 
If  not,  why  then,  this  parting  was  well  made. 


)t 


O,  if  man  could  know  the  event  of  that  day 
before  it  befell!  But  it  must  suflfice  to  know 
that  day  will  have  an  end,  and  that  the  end 
will  be  known.  Mighty  powers  govern  the 
world,  Brutus  resigns  himself  to  them :  they  may 
have  already  judged  him  guilty  or  be  about  to 
do  so. 


k 


252     TRAGEDY   OF   THE  WILL 


/ 


V 


* 


Hamlet  has  generally  been  considered  the 
tragedy  of  Shakespearean  tragedies,  where  the 
poet  has  put  most  of  himself,  given  us  his  phil- 
osophy, and  with  it  the  key  to  the  other  trage- 
dies. But  strictly  speaking,  Shakespeare  has 
not  put  himself,  that  is  to  say  his  poetry,  into 
Hamlet,  either  more  or  less  than  into  any  of 
the  others;  there  is  not  more  philosophy,  as 
judge  of  reality  and  of  life  here  than  in  the 
others;  there  is  perhaps  less,  because  it  is  more 
perplexed  and  vague  than  the  others,  and  even 
the  celebrated  monologue  {To  be  or  not  la 
be),  though  supremely  poetical,  is  irreducible 
to  a  philosopheme  or  to  a  philosophic  problem. 
Finally,  it  is  not  the  key  or  compendium  of  the 
other  plays,  but  the  expression  of  a  particular 
state  of  the  soul,  which  differs  from  those  ex- 
pressed in  the  others.  Those  who  read  it  in 
the  ingenuous  spirit  in  which  it  was  written  and 
conceived,  find  no  difficulty  about  taking  it  for 
what  it  is,  namely  the  expression  of  disaffection 
and  distaste  for  life;  they  experience  and  as- 
similate that  state  of  the  soul.  Life  is  thought 
and  will,  but  a  will  which  creates  thought  and 
a  thought  which  creates  will,  and  when  we  feel 
that  certain  painful  impressions  have  injured 
and  upset  us,  it  sometimes  happens  that  the 


TRAGEDY  OF  THE  WILL     253 


will  does  not  obey  the  stimulus  of  thought  and 
becomes  weak  as  will;  then  thought,  feeling  in 
its  turn  that  it  is  not  stimulated  and  upheld  by 
the  will,  begins  to  wander  and  fails  to  make 
progress:  it  tries  now  this  and  now  that,  but 
grasps  nothing  firmly;  it  is  thought  not  sure 
of  itself,  it  is  not  true  and  effective  thought. 
There  is,  as  it  were,  a  suspension  of  the  rapid 
course  of  the  spirit,  a  void,  a  losing  of  the  way, 
which  resembles  death,  and  is  in  fact  a  sort  of 
death.  This  is  the  state  of  soul  that  Shake- 
speare infused  into  the  ancient  legend  of  Ham- 
let, Prince  of  Denmark,  on  whom  he  conferred 
many  noble  aptitudes  and  gifts,  and  the  promise 
or  the  beginning  of  a  fervent  life.  He  then 
interrupted  and  suspended  Hamlet's  beginning 
of  life,  and  let  it  wander,  as  though  seeking 
in  vain,  not  only  its  proper  task,  but  even  the 
strength  necessary  to  propose  it  to  himself, 
with  that  firmness  which  becomes  and  is,  in- 
deed, itself  action.  Hamlet  is  a  generous  and 
gentle  youth,  with  a  disposition  towards  medi- 
tation and  scientific  enquiry,  a  lover  of  the 
beautiful,  devoted  to  knightly  sports,  prone  to 
friendship,  not  averse  to  love,  with  faith  in  the 
human  goodness  and  in  those  around  him,  espe- 
cially in  his  father  and  mother,  and  in  all  his 


f 


\'i 


254     TRAGEDY  OF   THE  WILL 

relations  and  friends.  He  was  perhaps  too 
refined  and  sensitive,  too  delicate  in  soul;  but 
his  life  proceeded,  according  to  its  own  law, 
towards  certain  ends,  caressing  certain  hopes. 
In  the  course  of  this  facile  and  amiable  exist- 
ence, he  experienced,  first  the  death  of  his 
father,  followed  soon  after  by  the  second  mar- 
riage of  his  mother,  who  seems  to  have  very 
speedily  forgotten  her  first  husband  in  the 
allurement  of  a  new  love.  He  feels  himself  in 
every  way  injured  by  this  marriage,  and  with 
the  disappearance  of  his  esteem  for  his  mother, 
a  horrible  suspicion  insinuates  itself,  which  is 
soon  confirmed  by  the  apparition  of  his  father's 
restless  ghost,  which  demands  vengeance. 
And  Hamlet  will,  nay  must  and  will  carry  it 
out;  he  would  find  a  means  to  do  so  warily  and 
effectually,  if  he  had  not  meanwhile  begun  to 
die  from  that  shock  to  his  sentiments.  That 
is  to  say,  he  began  to  die  without  knowing  it, 
to  die  internally:  the  pleasures  of  the  world 
become  in  his  eyes  insipid  and  rancid,  the  earth 
and  the  sky  itself  lose  their  colours.  Every- 
thing that  is  contrary  to  the  ideal  and  to  the 
joy  of  life,  injustice,  betrayal,  lies,  hypocrisy, 
bestial  sensuality,  greed  of  power  and  riches, 
cowardice,  perversity  and  with  them  the  nullity 


TRAGEDY  OF   THE  WILL     255 

of  worldly  things,  death  and  the  fearful  un- 
known, gather  themselves  together  in  his  spirit, 
round  that  horrible  thing  that  he  has  discov- 
ered, the  assassination  of  his  father,  the  adult- 
ery of  his  mother;  they  tyrannise  over  his  spirit 
and  form  a  barrier  to  his  further  progress,  to 
his  living  with  that  former  warmth  and  joyous 
vigour,  as  indispensable  to  thought  as  it  is  to 
action.  Hamlet  can  no  longer  love,  for  love 
is  above  all  love  of  life;  for  this  reason  he 
breaks  off  the  love-idyll  that  he  had  begun  with 
Ophelia,  whom  he  loved  and  whom  in  a  certain 
way,  he  still  loves  infinitely,  but  as  we  love  one 
dead,  knowing  her  to  be  no  longer  for  us. 
Hamlet  can  laugh  no  more :  sarcasm  and  irony 
take  the  place  of  frank  laughter  on  his  lips. 
He  fails  to  coordinate  his  acts,  himself  becom- 
ing the  victim  of  circumstances,  though  con- 
stantly maintaining  his  attitude  of  contempt,  or 
breaking  out  into  unexpected  resolves,  fol- 
lowed by  hasty  execution. 

Sometimes  he  still  rises  to  the  level  of  moral 
indignation,  as  in  the  colloquy  with  his  mother, 
but  this  too  is  a  paroxysm,  not  a  coordinated  ac- 
tion. Joy  is  needed,  not  only  for  love,  but 
also  for  vengeance ;  there  must  be  passion  for 
the  activity  that  is  being  exercised;  but  Hamlet 


4 


\m 


256     TRAGEDY   OF   THE  WILL 

IS  in  such  a  condition  that  he  should  give  him- 
self the  same  advice  as  he  gives  to  the  misera- 
ble Ophelia  —  to  get  her  to  a  nunnery  and 
there  practice  renunciation  and  restraint.  But 
he  is  not  conscious  of  the  nature  of  his  malady, 
and  it  is  precisely  for  this  reason  that  he  is 
ill;  instead  of  combating  it  by  applying  the 
right  remedy,  he  cultivates,  nourishes  and  in- 
creases it.  At  the  most,  what  is  taking  place 
within  him  excites  his  astonishment  and  moves 
him  to  vain  self-rebuke  and  equally  vain  self- 
stimulation,  as  we  observe  after  his  dialogue 
with  the  players,  and  after  he  has  heard  the 
passion,  fury  and  weeping  they  put  into  their 
part,  and  when  he  meets  the  army  led  by  For- 
tinbras  against  Poland. 

"  I  do  not  know 
Why  yet  I  live  to  say  *  This  thing's  to  do  ' ; 
Sith  I  have  cause,  and  will,  and  strength,  and  means 
To  do't.     Examples,  gross  as  earth  exhort  me: 
Witness  this  army,  of  such  mass  and  charge, 
Led  by  a  delicate  and  tender  prince ; 
Whose  spirit  with  divine  ambition  puff'd, 
Makes  mouths  at  the  invisible  event, 
Exposing  what  is  miserable  and  unsure 
To  all  that  fortune  death  and  danger  dare 
Even  for  an  egg-shell.  .  .  .  O,  from  this  time  forth, 
My  thought  be  bloody  or  be  nothing  worth!  '* 


TRAGEDY   OF  THE   WILL     257 

Finally,  he  accomplishes  the  great  vengeance, 
but  alas,  in  how  small  a  way,  as  though  jest- 
ingly, as  though  it  were  by  chance,  and  he  him- 
self dies  as  though  by  chance.  He  had  aban- 
doned his  life  to  chance,  so  his  death  must  be 
due  to  chance. 

We  too  have  termed  the  condition  of  spirit 
that  ruins  Hamlet,  an  illness;  but  the  word  is 
better  applied  to  a  doctor  or  a  moralist,  where- 
as the  tragedy  is  the  work  of  a  poet,  who  does 
not  describe  an  illness,  but  sings  a  song  of  des- 
perate and  desolate  anguish,  and  so  lofty  a 
song  is  it,  to  so  great  a  height  does  it  attain, 
that  it  would  seem  as  though  a  newer  and  more 
lofty  conception  of  reality  and  of  human  action 
must  be  born  of  it.  What  was  perdition  for 
Hamlet,  is  a  crisis  of  the  human  soul,  which 
assumed  so  great  an  extension  and  complexity 
after  the  time  of  Shakespeare  as  to  give  its 
name  to  a  whole  historical  period.  Yet  it  has 
more  than  historical  value,  because,  light  or 
serious,  little  or  great,  it  returns  to  live  again 
perpetually. 


258 


JUSTICE 


Justice  and  Indulgence 

It  would  be  vain  to  seek  among  the  songs  of 
Shakespeare  for  the  song  of  reconciliation,  of 
quarrels,  composed  of  inner  peace,  of  tran- 
quillity achieved,  but  the  song  of  justice  echoes 
everywhere  in  his  works.  He  knows  neither 
perfect  saints,  nor  perfect  sinners,  for  he  feels 
the  struggle  at  the  heart  of  reality  as  necessity, 
not  as  accident,  artifice,  or  caprice.  Even  the 
good,  the  brave  and  the  pure  have  evil,  impur- 
ity and  weakness  in  them:  **  fragility"  is  the 
word  he  utters  most  often,  not  only  with  re- 
gard to  women;  and  on  the  other  hand,  even 
the  wicked,  the  guilty,  the  criminal,  have  glimp- 
ses of  goodness,  aspirations  after  redemption, 
and  when  everything  else  is  wanting,  they  have 
energy  of  will  and  thus  possess  a  sort  of  spir- 
itual greatness.  One  hears  that  song  as  a  re- 
frain in  several  of  the  tragedies,  uttered  by 
foes  over  the  foes  whom  they  have  conquered. 
Anthony  pronounces  this  elegy  over  the  fallen 
Brutus : 

"This  was  the  noblest  Roman  of  them  all: 
All  the  conspirators,  save  only  he, 


JUSTICE  259 

Did  that  they  did  in  envy  of  great  Caesar; 
He  only  in  a  general  honest  thought 
And  common  good  to  all,  made  one  of  them. 
His  life  was  gentle  and  the  elements 
So  mix'd  in  him  that  nature  might  stand  up 
And  say  to  all  the  world  *  This  was  a  man.'  " 

Octavian,  when  he  hears  of  the  death  of  Anth- 
ony, exclaims: 

"  O  Anthony ! 
.  .  .  We  could  not  stall  together;  but  yet  let  me  la- 
ment, 
With  tears  as  sovereign  as  the  blood  of  hearts, 
That  thou,  my  brother,  my  competitor 
In  top  of  all  design,  my  mate  in  empire, 
Friend  and  companion  in  the  front  of  war, 
Un reconcilable  should  divide 

Where  mine  his  thoughts  did  kindle,  that  our  stars 
Unreconciliable  should  divide 
Our  equalness  to  this." 

It  is  above  all  in  Henry  VIII  that  this  feeling 
for  justice  widens  into  a  feeling  towards  one- 
self and  others.  We  find  a  particularly  good 
instance  of  it  in  the  dialogues  between  Queen 
Catherine  and  her  great  enemy  Wolsey. 
When  the  queen  has  mentioned  all  the  grave 
misdeeds  of  the  dead  man  in  her  severe  speech, 
Griffith  craves  permission  to  record  in  his  turn 
all  the  good  there  was  in  him;  ^nd  with  sq 


26o 


JUSTICE 


persuasive  an  eloquence  does  he  record  this 
good,  that  the  queen,  when  she  has  heard  him, 
concludes  with  a  sad  smile : 

"  After  my  death  I  wish  no  other  herald, 
No  other  speaker  of  my  living  actions, 
But  such  an  honest  chronicler  as  Griffith. 
Whom  I  most  hated  living  thou  hast  made  me, 
With  thy  religious  truth  and  modesty, 
Now  in  his  ashes  honour :  peace  be  with  him !  " 

One  who  feels  justice  in  this  way,  is  inclined 
to  be  indulgent,  and  in  Shakespeare  we  find 
the  song  of  indulgence,  in  the  Tempest :  a  lofty 
indulgence,  for  his  discernment  of  good  and 
evil  was  acute,  his  sense  alike  for  what  is  noble 
and  for  what  is  base,  exquisite.  He  could 
never  be  of  those  who  slip  into  some  form  of 
false  indulgence,  which  lowers  the  standard  of 
the  ideal,  in  order  to  approach  the  real,  can- 
celling or  rendering  uncertain,  in  greater  or 
lesser  measure,  the  boundaries  between  virtue 
and  vice.  Prospero  it  is,  who  is  indulgent  in 
the  Tempest,  the  sage,  the  wise,  the  injured, 
the  beneficent  Prospero. 

The  Tempest  is  an  exercise  of  the  imagina- 
tion, a  delicate  pattern,  woven  perhaps  as  a 
spectacle  for  some  special  occasion,  such  as  a 
marriage  ceremony,   for  it  adopts  the  proce- 


JUSTICE 


261 


dure  of  some  fanciful,  jesting  scenario  from  the 
popular  Italian  comedy.  Here  we  find  islands 
unknown,  aerial  spirits,  earthly  beings  and 
monsters;  it  is  full  of  magic  and  of  prodigies, 
o/^  shipwrecks,  rescues  and  incantations;  and 
the  smiles  of  innocent  love,  the  quips  of  comi- 
cal creatures,  variegate  pleasantly  its  surface. 
We  have  already  noted  the  traces  of  Shake- 
speare's tendency  toward  the  romantic,  and 
those  echoes  of  the  comedy  of  love,  of  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  who  are  not  unfortunate  but  fortu- 
nate, when  they  are  called  Ferdinand  and  Mi- 
randa, with  their  irresistible  impulse  towards 
love  and  joy.  But  although  the  work  has  a 
bland  tone,  there  are  yet  to  be  found  in  it  char- 
acters belonging  to  tragedy,  wicked  brothers, 
who  usurp  the  throne,  brothers  who  meditate 
and  attempt  fratricide.  In  Caliban  we  find  the 
malicious,  violent  brute,  abounding  in  strength 
and  rich  in  possibilities.  He  listens  ecstatic- 
ally to  the  soft  music,  with  which  the  isle  often 
resounds,  he  knows  its  natural  secrets  and  is 
ready  to  place  himself  at  the  service  of  him 
who  shall  aid  him  in  his  desire  for  vengeance 
and  shall  redeem  him  from  captivity.  Hence- 
forth Prospero  has  all  his  enemies  in  his  power; 
he  can  do  with  them  what  he  likes.     But  he  is 


262 


JUSTICE 


JUSTICE 


263 


I 


not  on  the  same  plane  with  them,  a  combatant 
among  combatants:  meditation,  experience  and 
science  have  refined  him :  he  is  penetrated  with 
the  consciousness  of  humanity,  of  its  Instability, 
its  illusions,  its  temptations,  its  miseries. 
Where  others  think  they  see  firm  foothold,  he 
is  aware  of  change  and  insecurity;  where  others 
find  everything  clear  as  day,  he  feels  the  pres- 
ence of  mystery,  of  the  unsolved  enigma : 

"  We  are  such  things 
As  dreams  are  made  of  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep." 

Will  he  punish?  Finally,  even  his  sprite 
Ariel,  his  minister  of  air,  feels  compassion  for 
those  downcast  prisoners,  and  when  asked  by 
Prospero,  does  not  withhold  from  him,  that  in 
his  place  he  would  be  human. 

"  And  mine  shall. 
Hast  thou,  which  are  but  air,  a  touch,  a  feeling 
Of  their  afflictions,  and  shall  not  myself, 
One  of  their  kind,  which  relish  all  as  sharply, 
Passion  as  they,  be  kindlier  moved  than  thou  art  ?  " 

The  guilty  are  pardoned,  and  finally  Cali- 
ban, the  monstrous  Caliban,  is  pardoned  also, 
promising  to  behave  himself  better  from  that 
moment  onward.     Prospero  divests  himself  of 


his  magic  wand,  which  gave  him  so  absolute  a 
power  over  his  like,  and  while  yet  in  his  posses- 
sion, caused  hint  to  incur  the  risk  of  behaving 
towards  them  in  a  more  than  human,  perhaps 
an  inhuman  way. 

Shakespeare  can  and  does  attain  to  indul- 
gence towards  men;  but  since  in  him  the  con- 
test between  good  and  evil,  positive  and  nega- 
tive, remains  undecided,  he  Is  unable  to  rise 
to  a  feeling  of  cheerful  hope  and  faith,  nor,  on 
the  other  hand,  to  submerge*  himself  In  gloomy 
pessimism.     In  his  characters,  the  love  of  life 
Is  extraordinarily  vigorous  and  tenacious;  all 
of  them  are  agitated  by  strong  passions;  they 
meditate  great  designs  and  pursue  them  with 
Indomitable  vigour;  all  of  them  love  Infinitely 
and  hate  infinitely.     But  all  of  them,  almost 
without  exception,  also  renounce  life  and  face 
death  with  fortitude,  serenity,  and  as  though  It 
were  a  sort  of  liberation.     The  motto  of  all 
Is  uttered  by  Edgar,  in  Kin^  Lear,  In  reply  to 
his  old  father,  Gloucester,  who  loses  courage 
and  wishes  to  die,  when  he  hears  of  the  defeat 
of  the  king  and  of  Cordelia.     Edgar  reminds 
his  father  that  men  must  face  **  their  coming 
here    even    as   their   going   hence,'*    and   that 
"ripeness    is    all.''     They    die    magnificently, 


i : 


264 


JUSTICE 


JUSTICE 


265 


1 


I 


^fi 


<;l 


I't'i 


w 


either  in  battle,  or  offering  their  throats  to  the 
assassin  or  the  executioner,  or  they  transpierce 
themselves  with  their  own  hands,  when  nothing 
is  left  but  death  or  dishonour.  They  know 
how  to  die;  it  seems  as  though  they  had  all 
*'  studied  death/^  as  says  a  character  in  Mac- 
beth, when  describing  one  of  them. 

And  nevertheless  the  ardour  of  life  never 
becomes  lessened  or  extinguished.  Romeo  in- 
deed admired  the  tenacity  of  life  and  the  fear 
of  death  in  him  who  sold  him  the  poison;  mis- 
erable, hungry,  despised,  suspected  by  men  and 
by  the  law,  as  he  was.  In  Measure  for  Meas- 
ure, in  the  scene  where  Claudio  is  in  prison  and 
condemned,  the  usual  order  is  inverted;  first 
we  have  the  prompt  persuasion  and  decision  to 
accept  death  with  serenity,  and  a  few  moments 
later  the  will  to  live  returns  with  furious  force. 
The  make-believe  friar,  who  assists  the  con- 
demned man,  sets  the  nullity  of  life  before  him 
in  language  full  of  warm  and  rich  imagery:  it 
is  troublous  and  such  as  "  none  but  fools 
would  keep,''  a  constant  heart-ache  for  the 
fear  of  losing  it,  a  craving  after  happiness 
never  attained,  a  falsity  of  affections,  a  crepus- 
cular condition,  without  joy  or  repose;  and 
Claudio  drinks  in  these  words  and  images,  feel- 


ing that  to  live  is  indeed  to  die,  and  wishes  for 
death.  But  his  sister  enters,  and  when  she 
tells  him  how  she  has  been  offered  his  life  as 
the  price  of  her  dishonour,  he  instantly  clutches 
hold  again  of  life  at  that  glimmer  of  hope,  of 
hope  stained  with  opprobrium,  and  dispels  with 
a  shudder  of  horror  the  image  of  death: 

*'  To  die  and  go  we  know  not  where ; 
To  lie  in  cold  obstruction  and  to  rot; 
This  sensible  and  warm  motion  to  become 
A  kneaded  clod;  'tis  too  horrible! 
The  weariest  and  most  loathed  worldly  life 
That  age,  ache,  penury  and  imprisonment 
Can  lay  on  nature  is  a  paradise 
To  what  we  fear  of  death.  .  .  ." 

And  in  the  same  play  the  singular  personage 
of  Barnadine  is  placed  before  us,  perfect  in  a 
few  strokes,  Barnadine,  the  criminal  and  al- 
most animal,  indifferent  to  life  and  death,  but 
who  yet  lives,  gets  drunk  and  then  stretches 
himself  out  and  sleeps  soundly,  and  when  he  is 
awakened  and  called  to  the  place  of  execution, 
declares  firmly,  that  he  is  not  disposed  to  go 
there  that  day,  so  they  had  better  leave  him 
alone  and  not  trouble  him;  he  turns  his  shoul- 
ders on  them  and  goes  back  to  his  cell,  where 
they  can  come  and  find  him,  if  they  have  any- 


266 


PLAY   SEQUENCE 


thing  to  say.  Here  too  the  feeling  of  astonish- 
ment at  an  eagerness  for  life,  which  does  not 
exclude  the  tranquil  acceptance  of  death,  is 
accentuated  almost  to  the  point  of  becoming 
comic  and  grotesque. 


Ideal  Development  and  Chronological 

Series 

It  is  clear  that  in  considering  the  principal 
motives  of  Shakespeare's  poetry  and  arrang- 
ing them  in  series  of  increasing  complexity,  we 
have  not  availed  ourselves  of  any  quantitative 
criterion  or  rule  of  measurement,  but  have  con- 
sidered only  the  philosophical  concept  of  the 
spirit,  which  is  perpetual  growth  upon  itself, 
and  of  which  every  new  act,  since  it  includes 
its  predecessors,  is  in  this  sense  more  rich  than 
they.  We  declare  in  the  same  way,  that 
prose  is  more  complex  than  poetry,  because  it 
follows  poetry,  assumes  and  dominates,  while 
making  use  of  it,  and  that  certain  concepts  and 
problems  imply  and  presuppose  certain  others; 
we  further  declare  that  a  particular  equality  in 
poetry  presupposes  other  poetry  of  a  more  ele- 
mentary quality,  and  that  a  pessimistic  song  of 


PLAY   SEQUENCE 


267 


love  or  sorrow,  presupposes  a  simple  love-song. 
Thus,  in  the  succession  of  his  works  as  we 
have  considered  them,  which  might  be  more 
closely  defined  and  particularised,  we  have  no- 
thing   less    than    the    ideal    development    of 
Shakespeare's   spirit,   deduced   from  the  very 
quality  of  the  poetical  works  themselves,  from 
the  physiognomy  of  each  and  from  their  recip- 
rocal relations,  which  cannot  but  appear  in  re- 
lations   which     are    serial    and    evolutionary. 
The  comedies  of  love  and  the  romantic  come- 
dies have  the  vagueness  of  a  dream,  followed 
by  the  hard  reality  of  the  historical  plays,  and 
from  these  we  pass  to    the    great    tragedies, 
which  are  dream  and  reality  and  more  than 
dream  and  reality.     The  general  line  followed 
by  the  poet  even  offered  the  temptation  to  con- 
struct his  development  by  means  of  the  dialectic 
triad  of  thesis,  antithesis  and  synthesis.     But 
we  do  not  recommend  this  course,  or  if  fol- 
lowed, it  should  only  be  with  the  view  of  reach- 
ing and  adopting  a  compendious  and  brilliant 
formula,  without  suppressing  in  any  way  the 
consciousness    of    complexity    and   variety    of 
many  effective  passages,  much  less  the  positive 
value  of  individual  expressions. 

This  development  does  not  in  any  case  co- 


268 


PLAY   SEQUENCE 


incide  with  the  chronological  order,  because  the 
chronological  order  takes  the    works    in    the 
order  in  which   they  are  apprehensible   from 
without,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  order  in  which 
they  have  been  written,  acted  or  printed,  and 
arranges  them  in  a  series  that  is  qualitatively 
irregular,  or  in  other  words,  chronicles  them. 
Now  this  arrangement  must  not  be  opposed 
to  or  placed   on   a   level   with    the   other,    as 
though  it  were  the  real  opposed  to  the  ideal 
development,   for  the  ideal  is  the  only  truly 
real  development,  while   the   chronological  is 
fictitious  or  arbitrary,  and  thus  unreal;  that  is 
to  say,  in  clear  terms,  it  does  not  represent  de- 
velopment, but  simply  a  series  or  succession. 
To  make  this  point  yet  more  clear,  by  means 
of  an  example  taken  from  common  experience, 
we  have  all  known  men,  who  in  their  youth 
have  practised  or  tried  to  practise  some  form 
of  activity  (music,  versification,  painting,  phil- 
osophy, etc.)  which  they  have  afterwards  aban- 
doned for  other  activities,  more  suitable,  be- 
cause in  them  susceptible  of  richer  development. 
These  men,  later  on,  in  their  maturity,  or  when 
old  age  is  approaching,  revert  to  those  earlier 
occupations,    and    take    delight    in    composing 
verses  or  music,  in  painting  or  in  philosophis- 


PLAY   SEQUENCE 


269 


ing,  returning,  as  they  say,  to  their  old  loves. 
Such  returns  are  certainly  never  pure  and 
simple  returns:  they  are  always  coloured  to 
some  extent  by  what  has  occurred  in  the  in- 
terval. But  they  really  and  substantially  be- 
long to  the  anterior  moment;  the  differences 
that  we  observe  in  them  some  part  of  that  par- 
ticular consideration  which  we  have  disregard- 
ed in  considering  the  development  of  Shake- 
speare, while  recommending  it  as  a  theme  for 
special  study.  As  we  find  in  works  which  rep- 
resent a  return  to  the  period  of  youth,  echoes 
of  the  mature  period,  so  in  youthful  works  we 
sometimes  find  anticipations  and  suggestions  of 
the  mature  period.  This  is  the  case  with 
Shakespeare,  not  only  in  certain  situations  and 
characters  of  the  historical  plays,  but  also  in 
certain  effects  of  the  Dream,  the  Merchant  of 
Venice  and  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

As  the  result  of  our  argument,  we  cannot 
pass  from  the  ideal  to  the  extrinsic  or  chrono- 
logical order,  and  therefore  it  could  only  indi- 
cate caprice,  were  we  to  conclude  from  the  fact 
that  Titus  Andronicus  represents  a  literary 
Shakespeare  or  a  theatrical  imitator,  that  it 
must  chronologically  precede  Romeo  and  Jul- 
iet, or  even  Love's  Labour's  Lost,    The  saniq 


270 


PLAY  SEQUENCE 


PLAY  SEQUENCE 


271 


i 

I 

i 


applies  to  the  argument  that  because  Cymbe- 
line,  the  JVinter^s  Tale  and  Pericles  are  com- 
posed of  romantic  material  similar  to  that  of 
Airs  Well,   of  Much  Ado   and   of    Twelfth 
Night  (where  we  find  innocent  maidens  falsely 
accused     and     afterwards    triumphant,     dead 
\j       women,  who  turn  out  to  be  alive,  women  dressed 
as  men,  and  the  like),  that  they  must  all  have 
been   written   at   the   same   time.     The   same 
holds  good  of  the  historical  plays:  we  cannot 
argue  from  the  fact  that  these  plays  represent 
a  more  complex  condition  of  the  soul  than  the 
love  comedies  and  the  romantic  plays,  that  the 
historical  plays  are  all  of  them  to  be  dated 
later  than  the  two  groups  above-mentioned;  or 
that  for  the  same  reasons,  Hamlet,  the  first 
Hamlet,  could  not  by  any  means  have  been 
composed  by  Shakespeare  in  his  very  earliest 
period,    about    1592,    as    Swinburne    asserts, 
swears  and  takes  his  solemn  oath  is  the  case: 
and  who  knows  but  he  Is  right? 

In  like  manner,  we  cannot  pass  from  the 
chronological  to  the  ideal  order,  and  since  the 
chronology,  documentary  or  conjectural,  places 
Coriolanus  after  Hamlet,  and  also  after 
Othello,  Macbeth,  Lear  and  Anthony  and  Cleo- 
patra, must  not,  therefore,  Insist  upon  finding 


In  It  profound  thoughts,  which  it  does  not  con- 
tain, or  deny  that  It  belongs  to  the  period  of 
the  "  historical  plays  "  with  which  It  has  the 
closest  connection.  Again,  although  the  chro- 
nology places  Cymbeline  and  the  Winter's 
Tale,  as  has  been  said,  in  the  last  years  of 
Shakespeare's  life,  we  must  not  insist  upon  find- 
ing profound  meanings  in  those  works,  or  talk, 
as  some  have  done,  of  a  superior  ethic,  a  **  the- 
ological ethic,"  to  which  Shakespeare  is  sup- 
posed at  last  to  have  attained,  or  dwell  upon 
the  gracious  Idyllic  scenes  to  be  found  in  them, 
weighing  them  down  with  non-existent  myste- 
ries, making  out  that  the  Imogens  and  Herml- 
ones  are  beings  of  equal  or  greater  poetic  In- 
tensity than  Cordelia,  or  Desdemona,  or  take 
Leontes  for  Othello,  Jacques  for  lago, 
whereas,  in  the  eyes  of  those  possessed  of  po- 
etic sentiment,  the  former  stand  to  the  latter 
In  the  relation  of  little  decorative  studies  com- 
pared to  works  by  Raphael  or  Glorgione. 
Proof  of  this  is  to  be  found  in  the  fact  that  the 
latter  have  become  popular  and  live  In  the 
hearts  and  minds  of  all,  while  the  former  please 
us,  we  admire  them,  and  pass  on. 

All  that  can  be  admitted,  because  comform- 
able  to  logic  and  experience.  Is  that  the  two 


272 


PLAY   SEQUENCE 


orders  in  general  —  but  quite  in  general,  and 
therefore  with  several  exceptions  and  disagree- 
ments—  big  and  little  —  correspond  to  one 
another.  Indeed,  if  we  take  the  usual  chrono- 
logical order,  as  fixed  by  philologists  and  to  be 
found  in  all  Shakespearean  manuals  and  at  the 
head  of  the  plays,  with  little  variation,  we  see 
that  the  first  comedies  of  love  and  the  tragedy 
of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  including  the  romantic 
element,  which  is  common  to  all  of  them,  be- 
long to  the  first  period,  between  1591  and 
1592.  We  next  find  the  historical  plays,  the 
comedies  of  love  and  the  romantic  dramas, 
closely  associated;  then  begins  the  period  of 
the  great  tragedies,  Julius  Caesar  and  Anthony 
and  Cleopatra;  then  again,  —  after  a  return 
to  anterior  forms  with  Coriolanus,  Cymheline 
and  the  Winter's  Tale, —  we  reach  the  Tem- 
pest, which  seems  to  be  the  last,  or  among  the 
last  of  Shakespeare's  works. 

Biographers  have  tried  to  explain  the  last 
period  of  Shakespeare's  poetry  in  various 
ways,  sometimes  as  the  period  of  his  ''  becom- 
ing  serene,*  sometimes  as  that  of  his  ^'  poetical 
exhaustion  **  sometimes  as  ''  an  attempt  after 
new  forms  of  art  ** ;  but  with  such  utterances 
as  these,  we  find  ourselves  among  those  con- 


PLAY   SEQUENCE 


273 


jectural  constructions,  which  we  have  purposely 
avoided,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  that  so 
many  people,  who  are  good  for  nothing  else, 
make  them  every  day,  and  we  do  not  wish  to 
deprive  them  of  their  occupation. 

The  biographical  character  of  that  period 
can  be  interpreted,  as  we  please,  as  one  of  re- 
pose, of  gay  facility,  of  weariness,  of  expecta- 
tion and  training  for  new  works,  and  so  on: 
but  the  poetical  character  of  the  works  in  ques- 
tion, is  such  as  we  have  described,  and  such  as 
all  see  and  feel  that  it  is.  It  is  too  but  a  bio- 
graphical conjecture,  however  plausible, — 
but  certainly  most  graceful  and  pleasing — , 
which  maintains  that  the  magician  Prospero, 
who  breaks  his  wand,  buries  his  book  of  en- 
chantments, and  dismisses  his  aerial  spirit 
Ariel,  ready  to  obey  his  every  nod,  symbolizes 
William  Shakespeare  himself,  who  henceforth 
renounces  his  art  and  takes  leave  of  the  imag- 
inary world,  which  he  had  created  for  his  own 
delight  and  in  obedience  to  the  law  of  his  own 
development  and  where  till  then  he  had  lived  as 
sovereign. 


SHAKESPEARE'S   ART 


275 


I 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  ART  OF  SHAKESPEARE 

The  motives  of  Shakespeare's  poetry  having 
been  described,  there  is  no  occasion  for  the 
further  question  as  to  the  way  in  which  he  has 
made  of  them  concrete  poetry,  in  other  words, 
as  to  the  form  he  gave  to  that  affective  con- 
tent. Form  and  content  cannot  be  separated 
from  one  another  and  considered  apart.  For 
this  reason,  everything  remarked  of  Shake- 
speare's poetry,  provided  that  it  is  something 
real  and  well  observed,  must  be  either  a  repeti- 
tion applied  to  Shakespeare  of  the  statement 
as  to  the  characteristics,  that  is  to  say,  the 
unique  character  of  all  poetry,  or  a  description 
in  language  more  or  less  precise,  beneath  the 
title  of  "  formal  characteristics,"  of  what  con- 
stituted  the  physiognomy  of  the  sentiment  or 
sentiments  of  Shakespeare,  thus  returning  to 
that  determination  of  motives,  of  which  we 
have  treated  above.  Still  less  can  we  engage 
in  an  enquiry  as  to  the  technique  of  Shake- 

274 


speare,  because  the  concept  of  technique  is  to 
be  altogether  banished  from  the  sphere  of 
aesthetic  criticism,  technique  being  concerned 
solely  with  the  practical  purposes  of  extrinsica- 
tion,  such  as  for  poetry  would  be  the  training 
of  a  reciter's  voice,  or  the  making  of  the  paper 
and  the  type,  with  which  it  is  printed.  There 
is  no  trade  secret  in  Shakespeare,  which  can 
be  communicated,  no  "  part "  that  **  can  be 
taught  and  learned"  (as  has  been  main- 
tained) ;  in  the  best  sense  "  technique "  has 
value  as  a  synonym  of  artistic  form  and  in  that 
way  returns  to  become  part  of  the  dilemma 
above  indicated. 

Easy  confirmation  of  this  fact  is  to  be  found 
in  any  one  of  the  many  books  that  have  been 
written  on  the  **  form  "  or  on  the  **  technique  " 
of  Shakespeare.  Take  for  example  the  most 
intelligent  of  all,  that  by  Otto  Ludwig,  writ- 
ten with  much  penetration  of  art  in  general  and 
of  Shakespearean  art  in  particular,  which  con- 
tains the  words  that  have  been  censured  above. 
There  we  read,  that  in  Shakespeare  **  every- 
thing is  individualised,  and  at  the  same  time 
idealised,  by  means  of  loftiness  and  power: 
every  speech  accords  with  the  sentiment  that 
has  called  it  forth,  every  action  with  the  char- 


ll 


276 


SHAKESPEARE'S   ART 


acter  and  situation,  every  character  and  situa- 
tion depends  upon  every  other  one,  and  both 
upon  the  individuality  of  the  time ;  every  speech 
and  every  situation  is  yet  more  individualised  by 
means  of  time  and  place,  even  by  means  of  nat- 
ural phenomena;  in  such  a  way  that  each  one 
of  his  plays  has  its  own  atmosphere,  now 
clearer,  now  more  dark." 

But  of  what  poetry  that  is  poetry  cannot  this 
individuated  idealisation  be  affirmed  or  de- 
manded? We  read  in  the  same  volume  that 
Shakespeare  **  is  never  speculative,  but  always 
holds  to  experience,  as  Shylock  to  the  signature 
on  the  bond."  But  what  poetry  that  is  poetry 
ever  does  abandon  the  form  of  the  sensible  for 
the  concept  or  for  reasoning?  The  *'  supreme 
truth  "  of  every  particular  of  the  representa- 
tion is  praised,  but  this  does  not  exclude  the 
use  of  the  **  symbolical,"  that  is,  of  particulars 
which  are  not  found  in  nature,  but  mean  what 
they  are  intended  to  mean,  and  **  give  the  im- 
pression of  the  most  persuasive  reality,  al- 
though, indeed  precisely  because,  not  one  word 
of  them  can  be  said  to  be  true  to  nature." 
With  such  a  statement  as  this,  the  utmost  at- 
tained is  a  confutation  of  the  pertinacious  artis- 
tic heresy  as  to  imitation  of  nature.     We  find 


SHAKESPEARE'S   ART 


277 


*'  Shakespearean  totality "  exalted,  by  means 
of  which  **  a  passion  is  like  a  common  denom- 
inator of  the  capital  sum,  and  the  capital  sum 
becomes  in  its  turn  the  general  denominator  of 
the  play."  This  **  totality  "  is  clearly  synony- 
mous with  the  lyrical  character,  which  consti- 
tutes the  poetry  of  every  poem,  including  those 
that  are  called  epic  and  dramatic,  or  narrative, 
and  those  in  the  form  of  dialogue.  We  find 
here  too  that  nearly  all  the  tragedies  assume  in 
a  sense  the  "  form  of  a  sonata,"  which  contains 
in  close  relation  and  contrast  the  theme,  the 
idea  of  the  hero  and  the  counter-theme,  and  in 
the  passages  aforesaid  develops  the  motives  of 
the  theme  with  **  harmonious  and  contrapuntal 
characteristics  "  and  **  in  the  third  part  resumes 
the  whole  theme  in  a  more  tranquil  manner,  and 
in  tragedy  in  a  parallel  minor  key."  But  this 
imaginary  technical  excellence  is  nothing  but 
the  "  musical  character  "  of  all  art,  which,  like 
the  "  lyrical  character,"  is  certainly  worth  in- 
sisting upon  as  against  the  materially  figurative 
and  realistic  interpretation  of  artistic  repre- 
sentations. Analogous  observations  avail  as 
to  the  "  ideality  "  of  "  time  "  and  "  place," 
which  Ludwig  discovers  in  Shakespeare,  and 
which  are  to  be  found  in  every  poem,  where 


278 


SHAKESPEARE'S  ART 


SHAKESPEARE'S  ART 


279 


HI 


I 


rhythm  and  form  obey  rules,  which  are  by  no 
means  arithmetical  or  geometrical,  but  solely  in- 
ternal and  poetic.  They  also  avail  against  all 
the  other  statements  of  Ludwig  and  other  crit- 
ics as  to  typicity,  impersonality,  constancy  of 
characteristics,  which  is  also  variability,  and 
the  like.  These  are  all  similes  or  metaphors 
for  poetry,  which  is  unique.  It  is  true  that 
some  of  these  things  are  noted,  just  with  a 
view  to  differentiate  Shakespeare  from  other 
poets,  and  therefore  assume  a  proper  individ- 
ual meaning,  when  we  take  truth  as  being  the 
particular  Shakespearean  truth,  his  vision  of 
things,  and  the  sense  which  he  reveals  for  the 
indivisible  tie  between  good  and  evil  existing  in 
every  man;  for  "impersonality,"  his  attitude 
of  irresolute  but  energetic  dialectic,  and  so  on; 
but  in  certain  other  cases,  it  is  not  a  question 
of  the  form  of  Shakespeare,  but,  as  has  been 
said,  of  his  own  sentiment  and  of  his  motives 
of  inspiration. 

In  one  case  only  is  it  possible  to  separate 
form  from  content  and  to  consider  it  in  it- 
self; that  is  to  say,  when  the  rhetorical  method 
is  applied  to  Shakespeare  or  to  any  other  art- 
ist. This  consists  in  separating  form  from 
content  and  making  of  it  a  garment,  which  be- 


comes just  nothing  at  all  without  the  body  with 
which  it  grew  up,  or  gives  rise  to  pure  caprice 
and  to  the  illusion  that  anyone  can  appropriate 
and  adopt  it  to  his  own  purposes.  In  roman- 
tic parlance  (for  there  existed  a  romantic 
manner  of  speech)  what  was  known  as  a  mix- 
ture of  comic  and  tragic,  of  prose  and  verse, 
what  was  called  the  "  humorous,  the  grotesque, 
the  fanciful,"  such  as  apparitions  of  mysterious 
and  supernatural  beings,  and  again  the  method 
that  Shakespeare  employed  in  production  of 
his  plays,  his  manner  of  treating  the  conflict 
and  determining  the  catastrophe,  the  way  in 
which  he  makes  his  personages  speak,  the  qual- 
ity and  richness  of  his  vocabulary,  were  enum- 
erated as  "  characteristics  of  his  art,"  things 
that  others  could  employ  if  they  wished  to  do 
so,  and  indeed  they  were  so  employed,  with  the 
poor  results  that  one  can  imagine.  This  is 
the  source  of  the  anticritical  terminology  em- 
ployed for  Shakespeare  and  other  poets,  which 
discovers  and  magnifies  his  "  ability,"  his  "  ex- 
pedients," his  **  conveying  of  the  necessary  in- 
formation without  having  the  air  of  doing  so," 
as  though  he  were  a  calculator  or  constructor 
of  instruments  with  certain  practical  ends,  not 
a  divine  imagination.     But  enough  of  this. 


28o 


SHAKESPEARE'S   ART 


Certainly,  it  would  be  possible  to  take  one 
of  the  plays  of  Shakespeare,  or  all  of  them,  one 
after  the  other,  and  having  exposed  their  fund- 
amental motive  (this  has  been  done),  to  illus- 
trate their  aesthetic  coherence  and  to  point  out 
the  delicacy  of  treatment,  bit  by  bit,  scene  by 
scene,  accent  by  accent,  word  by  word.  In 
Macbeth^  for  instance,  might  be  shown  the  ro- 
bust and  potent  unity  of  the  affective  tragical 
representation,  which  bursts  out  and  runs  like 
a  lyric,  all  of  a  piece,  everywhere  maintaining 
complete  harmony  of  parts,  and  each  scene 
seeming  to  be  a  strophe  of  the  poem,  from  its 
opening,  with  the  sudden  news  of  Macbeth's 
victories,  and  the  joy  and  gratitude  of  the  old 
king,  immediately  followed  by  the  fateful  meet- 
ing with  the  witches  and  by  the  kindling  of  the 
voracious  desire,  against  which  Macbeth  strug- 
gles; down  to  the  coming  of  the  king  to  the 
castle,  where  ambush  and  death  await  his  un- 
suspecting confidence;  then  the  scene  darkens, 
the  murder  takes  place  on  that  dread  night,  and 
Macbeth  becomes  gradually  involved  in  a  cres- 
cendo of  crimes,  up  to  the  moment  when  the 
terrible  tension  ends  in  furious  combat  and  the 
slaying  of  the  hero.  King  Duncan,  when  he 
arrives  at  the  gate  of  the  castle,  serene  and 


SHAKESPEARE'S   ART         281 

happy  as  he  is,  in  the  event  which  has  given 
peace  to  his  kingdom,  lingers  to  enjoy  the  deli- 
cate air  and  to  admire  the  amenity  of  the  spot. 
Banquo  echoes  him,  and  abandons  himself  to  in- 
nocent pleasure,  in  whole-hearted  confidence,  re- 
peating that  delicious  little  poem  about  the 
martlet,  which  has  suspended  everywhere  on 
the  walls  of  the  castle  its  nest  and  fruitful 
cradle, 

"  This  guest  of  summer, 
The  temple-haunting  martlet," 

whose  presence  he  has  always  observed,  im- 
plies that  the  **  air  is  delicate."  In  the  whole 
of  that  quiet  little  conversation,  we  feel  sympa- 
thy for  the  good  old  man,  we  shudder  for  what 
is  coming  and  are  sensible  of  the  piteous  wrong 
in  things.  When  Macbeth  crosses  swords 
with  Macduff,  he  remembers  the  last  words  of 
the  witches'  prophecy,  which  he  believes  to  be 
favourable  to  himself;  but  when  it  becomes  sud- 
denly evident  that  Macduff  it  is,  who  shall  slay 
him,  he  shudders  and  bursts  out  as  before,  with : 
"  I  will  not  fight  with  thee.*'  This  ejaculation 
reveals  the  violence  of  the  shock  and  an  in- 
stinctive movement  of  the  will  to  live,  which 
would  elude  its  destiny.     And  we  can  pause  at 


282 


SHAKESPEARE'S  ART 


SHAKESPEARE'S  ART 


283 


any  part  of  Othello,  for  instance,  at  the  mo- 
ment when  Desdemona  intercedes  for  Cassio, 
with  the  gentleness  and  coquetry  of  a  woman  in 
love,  who  knows  that  she  is  loved,  and  talks 
like  a  child,  who  knows  it  has  the  right  to  be 
a  little  spoilt;  or  at  the  moment  when  Desde- 
mona is  in  the  act  of  being  slain,  'when  she 
does  not  break  into  the  complaints  of  innocence 
calumniated,  nor  assumes  the  attitude  of  a  vic- 
tim unjustly  sacrificed,  but  like  a  poor  creature 
of  flesh  and  blood  that  loves  life,  loves  love, 
and  with  childish  egoism  has  abandoned  her 
father  for  love,  and  now  breaks  out  into  child- 
ish supplications,  trying  to  postpone  and  to  re- 
tard death,  at  least  for  a  few  moments. 

**  O,  banish  me,  my  lord,  but  kill  me  not !  .  .  . 
Kill  me  to-morrow;  let  me  live  to-night!  .  .  • 

But  half  an  hour!  .  .  . 
But  while  I  say  one  prayer !  " 

We  could  in  like  manner  enable  anyone  to 
understand  the  fabulous-human  character  of 
Kin^  Lear,  who  did  not  at  once  understand  it 
for  himself,  by  analysing  the  great  initial  scene 
between  Lear  and  his  three  daughters,  where, 
at  the  poet's  touch,  the  story  and  the  fabulous 
personages  assume  at  one  stroke  a  reality  that 


is  the  very  strength  of  our  abhorrence  of  dry 
egoism  cloaking  itself  in  affectionate  words 
and  also  the  very  strength  of  our  tender  ad- 
miration for  the  true  goodness,  which  conceals 
itself  and  does  not  speak  ('*What  shall  Cor- 
delia do?     Love  and  be  silent  "). 

This  insistence  upon  analysis  and  eulogy  will 
be  of  special  value  to  those  who  do  not  imme- 
diately understand  of  themselves,  owing  either 
to  preconceptions,  to  habitual  lack  of  attention, 
to  their  slight  knowledge  of  art  or  to  their  lack 
of  penetration.  It  will  be  of  use  in  schools,  to 
promote  good  reading,  and  outside  them,  it 
may  assist  in  softening  those  hard  heads  which 
belong  sometimes  to  men  of  letters.  But  it 
does  not  form  part  of  our  object  in  writing 
this  treatise,  nor  does  it  appear  to  form 
part  of  the  duty  of  Shakespearean  criticism, 
for  Shakespeare  is  one  of  the  clearest  and 
most  evident  of  poets,  capable  of  being  per- 
fectly understood  by  men  of  slight  or  elemen- 
tary culture.  We  run  with  impatience  through 
the  many  prolix,  aesthetic  commentaries  which 
we  already  possess  on  his  plays,  as  we  should 
certainly  listen  with  impatience  to  anyone  who 
should  draw  our  attention  to  the  fact  that  the 
sun  is  shining  brightly  in  the  sky  at  midday. 


284 


SHAKESPEARE^S   ART 


V 


\i 


V 


that  it  is  gilding  the  country  with  its  light,  mak- 
ing sparkle  the  dew,  and  playing  with  its  rays 
upon  the  leaves. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  not  inopportune  to 
record  that  excellence  in  his  art  was  long  de- 
nied or  contested  to  Shakespeare.  This  was 
the  general  view  of  his  contemporaries  them- 
selves, because  we  now  know  what  we  are  to 
think  of  the  words  of  praise,  which  we  find  re- 
lating to  him  in  the  literature  of  his  time. 
These  had  been  diligently  traced  and  collected 
by  scholars,  but  had  been  more  or  less  deliber- 
ately misunderstood,  and  interpreted  in  a  sense 
opposed  to  their  correct  meaning,  which  was 
that  of  benevolent  sympathy  and  condescend- 
ing praise  for  a  poet  of  popular  appeal,  ap- 
proximately what  we  should  employ  now  for  a 
lively  and  pleasing  writer  of  romantic  adven- 
tures. Similar  judgments  reappeared  in  a  dif- 
ferent style  and  at  a  different  time  in  the  fam- 
ous utterances  of  Voltaire,  which  vary  in  their 
intonation  according  to  his  humour:  such  are 
barb  are  aimable,  fou  seduisant,  sauvage  ivre, 
and  the  like.  They  do  not  appear  to  have  lost 
their  weight  especially  in  France,  where  a  cer- 
tain Monsieur  PcUissier  has  filled  a  large  vol- 
ume with  them,  coming  to  the  conclusion  that 


SHAKESPEARE'S   ART         285 

the   work  of   Shakespeare,   **  malgre  tant  de 
beautes  admirables  est  un  immense  fouillis," 
and  that  it  generally  seems  to  be,  *'  celle  d'un 
ecolier,  d'un  ecolier  genial,  qui  n'ayant  ni  ex- 
perience, ni  mesure,  ni  tact,  gaspille  premature- 
ment  son  genie   abortif."     Finally    (and  this 
has  greater  weight),  Jusserand,  a  learned  his- 
torian of  English  literature,  treating  of  Shake- 
speare with  great  display  of  erudition,  presents 
him  as  "  un  fidele  serviteur  ''  of  his  theatrical 
public,  and  speaks  of  his  **  defauts  enormes." 
Chateaubriand,  in  his  essay  of   1801,  playing 
the  Voltaire  in  his  turn,  attributed  to  him  "  le 
genie,''  while  he  denied  to  him  ''  Tart,''  the  ob- 
servance of  the  "  regies  ''  and  "  genres,"  which 
are  "  nes  de  la  nature  meme'';  but  later  he 
recognises   that   he   was  wrong  to    *'  mesurer 
Shakespeare  avec  la  lunette  classique."     Here 
he  put  his  finger  on  the  fundamental  mistake  of 
that  sort  of  criticism,  which  judges  art,  not  by 
its  intrinsic  qualities,  but  by  comparison  with 
other  works  of  art,  which  are  taken  as  models. 
The  same  mistake  was  renewed,  when  French 
tragedy  was  not  the  model,  but  the  art  of  real- 
istic modern  drama  and  fiction.     The  principal 
document  in  support  of  this  is  Tolstoi's  book, 
where    at   every  word   or   gesture    of    Shake- 


1» 

I 

Till  .:i 


.1 
ft 


286 


SHAKESPEARE'S   ART 


speare's  characters,  he  exclaims  that  men  do  not 
speak  thus,  that  is  to  say,  the  men  who  are  not 
man  in  universal,  but  the  men  of  Tolstoi's  ro- 
mances, though  these  latter  happen  to  be  far 
nearer  to  the  characters  of  Shakespeare  than 
their  great,  but  unreasonable  and  quite  un- 
critical author  suspected.  Tolstoi  arrives  at 
the  point  of  preferring  the  popular  and  un- 
poetical  play  Kin^  Lear,  to  the  King  Lear  of 
Shakespeare,  because  there  is  more  logic  in  the 
conduct  of  the  plot  in  the  former,  thus  show- 
ing that  he  prefers  minute  prosaic  details  to 
sublime  poetry. 

An  attenuated  form  of  these  views  as  to  the 
lack  of  art  in  Shakespeare  is  the  theory  main- 
tained better  by  Riimelln  than  by  others,  to  the 
effect  that  the  characters  in  Shakespeare  are 
worth  a  great  deal  more  than  the  action  or 
plots,  which  are  disconnected,  intermittent,  con- 
tradictory and  without  any  feeling  for  verisimi- 
litude. He  also  holds  that  Shakespeare  works 
on  each  scene,  without  having  the  power  of 
visualising  the  preceding  scene,  or  the  one  that 
is  to  follow,  and  also  that  the  characters  them- 
selves do  not  respect  the  truth  of  dialogue  and 
of  the  drama,  in  their  manner  of  speech,  which 
is    always    fiery,    imaginative    and    splendid. 


SHAKESPEARE'S   ART 


287 


Finally,  it  might  be  said  of  him  that  he  com- 
poses beautiful  music  for  libretti,  which  are 
more  or  less  ill  constructed.  Now  if  this  theory 
had  for  its  object  to  assert,  though  with  em- 
phasis and  exaggeration,  that  in  a  poetical  work 
the  material  part  of  the  story,  the  web  of 
events,  does  not  count,  and  that  the  only  thing 
of  importance  is  the  soul  that  circulates  within 
it,  just  as  in  a  picture,  it  is  not  the  material  side 
of  the  things  painted  (which  is  called  by  critics 
of  painting  "  the  literary  element,'*  or  that 
which  taken  in  itself  is  external  and  without 
importance),  but  the  rhythm  of  the  lines  and 
of  the  colours,  what  he  maintained  would  be 
correct,  if  only  as  a  reaction.  Coleridge  has 
already  noted  the  independence  of  the  drama- 
tic interest  from  the  intrigue  and  quality  of  the 
story,  which  in  the  Shakespearean  drama,  was 
obtained  from  the  best  known  and  commonest 
sources.  But  the  object  with  which  this  theory 
was  conceived  by  Riimelin  and  with  which  it  is 
generally  maintained,  has  for  its  object  to  es- 
tablish a  dualism  or  contradiction  in  the  art  of 
Shakespeare,  by  proving  him  to  be  "  strong 
in  one  domain  of  the  spirit  and  "  weak  "  in  an- 
other, where  strength  in  both  is  **  necessary," 
in  order  to  produce  a  perfect  work. 


288 


SHAKESPEARE^S   ART 


1:1 

Mi! 


We  are  bound  to  deny  with  firmness  t'Js  as- 
sumption: we  refuse  to  admit  the  existence  of 
any  such  dualism  and  contradiction,  because  the 
distinction  between  characters  and  actions,  be- 
tween style  and  dialogue  and  style  and  work, 
is  arbitrary,  scholastic  and  rhetorical.  There 
is  in  Shakespeare  one  poetical  stream,  and  it  is 
impossible  to  set  its  waters  against  one  another 
—  characters  against  actions,  and  the  like.  So 
true  is  this,  that  save  in  cold  blood,  one  does  not 
notice  his  so-called  contradictions,  omissions 
and  improbabilities,  that  is  to  say,  when  we 
leave  the  poetical  condition  of  the  spirit  and 
begin  to  examine  what  we  have  read,  as  though 
it  were  the  report  of  an  occurrence.  Nor  is  the 
imputation  cast  upon  the  speech  of  Shake- 
speare's characters,  which  is  perfectly  conso- 
nant with  the  nature  of  the  poems,  admissible. 
Hence  from  the  lips  of  Macbeth  and  of  Lady 
Macbeth,  of  Othello  and  of  Lear,  came  true 
and  proper  lyrics.  These  are  not  interruptions 
and  dissonances  in  the  play,  but  motions  and 
uplif tings  of  the  play  itself;  they  are  not  the 
superposition  of  one  life  upon  another,  but  the 
outpouring  of  that  life,  which  is  continued  in 
the  central  motive.  These  witticisms,  conceits 
and  misunderstandings  in  Romeo  and  Juliet, 


SHAKESPEARE'S   ART         289 

which  have  so  often  been  blamed,  are  to  be  ex- 
plained, at  least  in  great  measure,  in  a  natural 
way,  as  the  character  of  the  play,  as  the  comedy, 
which  precedes  and  imparts  its  colour  to  the 
tragedy,  and  is  brilliant  with  the  fashionable 
and  gallant  speech  of  the  day. 

In  making  the  foregoing  statement,  we  do 
not  wish  to  deny  that  in  the  drama  of  Shake- 
speare   are   to   be    found    (besides   historical, 
geographical,  and  chronological  errors,  which 
are  indifferent  to  poetry  but  not  necessary  and 
for  that  reason  avoidable  or  to  be  avoided) 
words    and    phrases,    and    sometimes    entire 
scenes,    which    are    not    justifiable,    save    for 
theatrical  reasons.     We  do  not  know  to  what 
extent  they  had  his  assent  and  to  what  extent 
they  are  due  to  the  very  confused  tradition, 
under  the  influence  of  which  the  text  of  his 
works  has  descended  to  us.     We  also  do  not 
wish  to  deny  that  he  was  guilty  of  little  over- 
sights and  contradictions,  and  that  he  was  per- 
haps generally  negligent.     But  it  is  important 
in  any  case  to  understand  and  bear  in  mind  the 
psychological  reasons  for  this  negligence,  in- 
spired with  that  sort  of  indifference  and  con- 
tempt for  the  easy  perfecting  of  certain  details, 
of  those  engaged  upon  works  of  great  magni? 


Ad 


290 


SHAKESPEARE*S  ART 


SHAKESPEARE'S  ART 


291 


!ml| 


i 


m 


tude  and  importance.  Glambattista  Vico,  a 
mighty  spirit  who  resembles  Shakespeare,  both 
in  his  full,  keen  sense  of  life  and  in  the  adven- 
tures of  his  work  and  of  his  fame,  was  also  apt 
frequently  to  overlook  details  and  to  make  slight 
mistakes,  and  was  convinced  **  that  diligence 
must  lose  itself  in  arguments,  which  have  any- 
thing of  greatness  in  them,  because  it  is  a  min- 
ute, and  because  minute  a  tardy  virtue/'  Thus 
he  openly  vindicated  the  right  of  rising  to  the 
level  of  heroic  fury,  which  will  not  brook  de- 
lay from  small  and  secondary  matters. 

As  Vico  was  nevertheless  most  accurate  in 
essentials,  never  sparing  himself  the  most 
lengthy  meditations  to  sound  the  bottom  of  his 
thoughts,  so  it  is  impossible  to  think  that  Shake- 
speare did  not  give  the  best  and  greatest  part 
of  himself  to  his  plays,  that  he  was  not  con- 
tinually intent  upon  observing,  reflecting  com- 
paring, examining  his  own  feelings,  seeking  out 
and  weighing  his  expressions,  collecting  and 
valuing  the  impressions  of  the  public  and  of 
his  colleagues  in  art,  in  fact,  upon  the  study  of 
his  art.  The  precision,  the  delicacy,  the  grada- 
tions, the  shading  of  his  representations,  are  an 
irrefragable  proof  of  this.  The  sense  of 
classic  form  is  often  denied  to  him,  even  by  his 


admirers,  that  is  to  say,  of  a  partial  and  old- 
fashioned  ideal  of  classical  form,  consisting  of 
certain  external  regularities.  But  he  was  a 
classic,  because  he  possessed  the  strength  that 
is  sure  of  itself,  which  does  not  exert  itself,  nor 
proceed  in  a  series  of  paroxysmal  leaps,  but 
carries  in  itself  its  own  moderation  and  seren- 
ity. He  had  that  taste  which  is  proper  to 
genius  and  commensurate  with  it,  because  genius 
without  taste  is  an  abstraction  to  be  found  only 
in  the  pages  of  treatises.  The  various  pas- 
sages, where  he  chances  to  find  an  opportunity 
for  theorizing  on  art,  show  that  he  had  pro- 
foundly meditated  the  art  he  practised.  In 
one  of  the  celebrated  passages  of  the  Dream, 
he  makes  Theseus  say, 

''  The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling, 

Doth   glance  from   heaven   to   earth,   from  earth   to 

heaven ; 
And  as  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shape,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 

And  that  a  powerful  imagination,  if  it  is  affected 
by  some  joy,  imagines  someone  as  the  bringer 
of  that  joy,  and  if  it  imagine  some  nocturnal 
terror,  it  changes  a  bush  into  a  wild  beast  with 


in 


V  w 


292 


SHAKESPEARE^S   ART 


fi 


r.' 


I' I 


i 

if 


great  facility.  That  is  to  say,  he  shows  him- 
self conscious  of  the  creative  virtue  of  poetry 
and  of  its  origin  in  the  feelings,  which  it  changes 
into  persons,  endowed  with  ethereal  sentiment. 
But  in  the  equally  celebrated  passage  of  Ham- 
let, he  dwells  upon  the  other  aspect  of  artistic 
creation,  upon  its  universality,  and  therefore 
upon  its  calm  and  harmony.  What  Hamlet 
chiefly  insists  upon  in  his  colloquy  with  the  play- 
ers, is  **  moderation,"  "  for  in  the  very  torrent, 
tempest,  and,  as  I  may  say,  the  whirlwind  of 
passion,  you  must  acquire  and  beget  a  temper- 
ance that  may  give  it  smoothness."  To  declare 
Shakespeare  to  be  a  representative  of  the 
frenzied  and  convulsed  style  in  poetry,  as  has 
been  done  several  times,  is  to  utter  just  the  re- 
verse of  the  truth.  In  this  respect,  it  is  well  ta 
read  the  contemporary  dramatists,  with  a  view 
to  measuring  the  difference,  indeed  the  abyss 
between  them.  In  the  famous  Spanish  Trag- 
edy of  Kyd,  there  is  a  scene  (perhaps  due  to 
another  hand)  in  which  Hieronymus  asks  a 
painter  to  paint  for  him  the  assassin  of  his  own 
son,  and  cries  out : 

"  There  you  may  show  a  passion,  there  you  may  show 

a  passion.  .  .  . 
Make  me  rave,  make  me  cry,  make  me  mad, 


SHAKESPEARE'S   ART         293 

Make  me  well  again,  make  me  curse  hell, 
Invocate,  and  in  the  end  leave  me 
In  a  trance,  and  so  forth." 

The  same  character  is  attacked  by  doubt  and 
asks  with  anxiety:  "  Can  this  be  done?  "  and 
the  painter  replies:     "  Yes,  Sir." 

Such  was  not  the  method  of  Shakespeare, 
who  would  have  made  the  painter  reply,  not 
with  a  yes,  but  with  a  yes  and  a  no  together. 

His    art,    then,   was   neither    defective   nor 
vitiated  in  any  part  of  its  own  constitutive  char- 
acter,   although   certain   works   are   obviously 
weak  and  certain  parts  of  other  works,  in  the 
vast  mass  that  goes  under  his  name.     Such 
youthful  plays  as  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  The 
Two  Gentlemen,  the  Comedy  of  Errors,  are 
not  notable,  save  for  a  certain  ease  and  grace, 
only  manifesting  in  certain  places  the  trace  of 
his  profound  spirit.     The  **  historical  plays," 
are  as  we  have  already  shown,  fragmentary  and 
do  not  form  complete  poems  animated  with  a 
single  breath  of  passion.    Some  of  them,  and  es- 
pecially the  first  part  of  Henry  VI,  have  about 
them  an  arid  quality  and  are  loosely  anecdotal; 
in  others,  such  as  Henry  IV  and  Henry  V,  is 
evident  the  desire  to  stimulate  patriotic  feel- 
ings, and  they  are  further  burdened  with  scenes 


tVi 


i 


»i 


i 


I 


294         SHAKESPEARE»S   ART 

of  a  purely  informative  nature.     Coriolanus 
too,  which  was  apparently  composed  later  and 
is  derived  from  a  different  source,  also  lacks 
complete  internal  justification,  for  it  consists  of 
a  study  of  characters.      Timon  (assuming  that 
it  was  his)   is  developed  in  a  mechanical  man- 
ner,  although  it  is  full  of  social  and  ethical 
observations  and  possesses  rhetorical  fervour. 
Cymbeline  and  the  Winter's  Tale  contain  lovely 
scenes,  but  are  not  as  a  whole  works  of  the  first 
order;  the  idyllic  and  romantic  Shakespeare  ap- 
pears in  them  to  have  rather  declined  in  com- 
parison to  the  author  of  the  earlier  plays  of 
the  same  sort,  inspired  with  a  very  different 
vigour.     Measure  for  Measure  contains  senti- 
ments   and    personages    that    are    profoundly 
Shakespearean,  as  the  protagonist  Angelo,  the 
meter  out  of  inexorable  justice,  so  sure  of  his 
own  virtue,  who  yields  to  the  first  sensual  temp- 
tation that  occurs,  in  Claudius,  who  wishes  and 
does  not  wish  to  die,  and  in  the  Barnadine  al- 
ready mentioned.     This  play,  which  oscillates 
between  the  tragic  and  the  comic,  and  has  a 
happy  ending,  instead  of  forming  a  drama  of 
the   sarcastic-sorrowful-horrible   sort,    fails   to 
persuade  us  that  it  should  have  been  thus  de- 
veloped and  thus  ended.     There  is  something 


SHAKESPEARE'S   ART         295 

of  the  composite  in  the  structure  of  the  won- 
derful Merchant  of  Venice,  and  certain  of  the 
scenes  of  Troilus  and  Cressida,  such  as  those  of 
the  speeches  of  Ulysses  and  those  on  the  other 
side  of  Hector  and  Troilus,  seem  to  be  echoes 
or  even  entire  pieces  taken  from  historical  plays 
and    transported    with    ironic    intention    into 
comedy.     Points  of  this  sort  are  to  be  found 
even  in  the  great  tragedies.     In  Lear,  for  In- 
stance, the  adventures  of  Gloucester  and  his  son 
are  not  completely  satisfactory,  grafted  as  they 
are  upon  those  of  the  king  and  his  daughters, 
either  because  they  introduce  too  realistic  an 
element  into  a  play  with  an  imaginary  theme,  or 
because  they  create  a  heavy  parallelism,  much 
praised  by  an  Italian  critic,  who  has  attempted 
to  express  King  Lear  in  a  geometrical  form; 
but  the  origin  for  this  parallelism  may  perhaps 
be  really  due  to  the  need  for  theatrical  variety', 
complication  and  suspense,  rather  than  to  any 
moral  purpose  of  emphasising  horror  at  in- 
gratitude.    The  clown,  who  accompanies  the 
king,  abounds  in  phrases,  which  are  not  all  of 
them  in  place  and  significant.     But  if  to  set 
about  picking  holes  in  the  beauties  of  Shake- 
speare's plays  has  seemed  to  us  a  superfluous 
and  tiresome  occupation,  such  too,  from  an- 


296 


SHAKESPEARE'S  ART 


SHAKESPEARE'S  ART    297 


I 


a. 


m 


other  point  of  view  and  in  addition  pedantic 
and  irreverent,  seems  to  be  the  investigation 
of  defects  that  we  observe  in  them;  they  are 
opaque  points,  which  the  eye  does  not  observe  in 
the  splendour  of  such  a  sun. 

Another  judgment  which  also  has  vogue  re- 
fers to  a  constitutive  or  general  defect  in 
Shakespeare's  poetry,  a  certain  limit  or  bar- 
rier in  it,  a  narrowness,  albeit  an  ample  and  a 
rich  narrowness.  We  must  distinguish  two 
forms  of  this  judgment,  the  first  of  which  might 
be  represented  by  the  epigrams  of  Platen,  who, 
while  recognising  Shakespeare's  power  to  move 
the  heart  and  the  strength  of  his  characterisa- 
tion, declared  that  "  so  much  truth  is  a  fatal 
gift,"  and  that  Shakespeare  draws  so  incisively, 
only  because  he  cannot  veil  his  personages  in 
grace  and  beauty.  He  greatly  admired  even 
what  is  painful  in  Shakespeare,  looking  upon  it 
as  beautiful,  and  was  full  of  admiration  for  his 
comical  figures,  such  as  Falstaff  and  Shylock, 
"  an  incomparable  couple  " ;  but  he  denied  to 
Shakespeare  true  tragic  power,  which  **  must 
open  the  deepest  of  wounds  and  then  heal 
them.''  The  second  of  these  forms  is  the  com- 
monest, and  Mazzini  may  stand  as  its  repre- 
sentative.    He    maintained    that    Shakespeare 


was  a  poet  of  the  real,  not  of  the  ideal,  of  the 
isolated  individual,  not  of  society;  that  he  was 
not  dominated  by  the  thought  of  duty  and  re- 
sponsibility towards  mankind,  as  expressed  in 
politics  and  history,  that  his  was  a  voice  rather 
of  the  Middle  Ages  than  of  modern  times, 
which  found  their  origin  in  Schiller,  the  poet  of 
humanity  and  Providence. 

Even  Harris's  book  concludes  with  a  series 
of  reservations:  he  says  that  Shakespeare  was 
neither  a  philosopher  nor  a  sage ;  that  he  never 
conceived  a  personage  as  contesting  and  com- 
bating his  own  time ;  that  he  had  only  a  vague 
idea  of  the  spirit  by  which  man  is  led  to  new 
and  lofty  ideals  in  every  historical  period; 
that  he  was  unable  to  understand  a  Christ  or  a 
Mahomet;  that  instead  of  studying,  he  ridi- 
culed Puritanism  and  so  remained  shut  up  in 
the  Renaissance,  and  that  for  these  reasons, 
in  spite  of  Hamlet;  he  does  not  belong  to  the 
modern  world,  that  the  best  of  a  Wordsworth 
or  of  a  Tolstoi  is  outside  him,  and  so  on.  We 
may  perfectly  admit  all  this  and  it  may  even  be 
of  use  in  putting  a  curb  upon  such  hyperbole  and 
such  superlatives  as  those  of  Coleridge,  to  the 
effect  that  Shakespeare  was  aner  myrionous,  the 
myriad-minded  man.    (although  even  this  my- 


ft 


u 


i^ 


298    SHAKESPEARE'S  ART 


SHAKESPEARE'S  ART 


299 


riad-mindedness  may  seem  to  be  but  a  very 
ample  narrowness,  if  myriads  be  taken  as  a 
finite  number). 

Shakespeare    could   never   have    desired    to 
possess  the  ideal  of  beauty,  which  visited  the 
soul  of  the  hirsute  and  unfortunate  Platen,  the 
social  or  humanitarian  ideals  of  the  Schillers 
and  Tourgueneffs.     But  he  had  no  need  what- 
ever of  these  things  to  attain  the  infinite,  which 
every  poet  attains,  reaching  the  centre  of  the 
circle  from  any  point  of  the  periphery.     For 
this  reason,  no  poet,  whatever  the  historical 
period  at  which  he  was  born  and  by  which  he  is 
limited,  is  the  poet  of  only  one  historical  epoch. 
Shakespeare  formed  himself  during  the  period 
of  the  Renaissance,  which  he  surpasses,  not  with 
his  practical  personality,  but  with  his  poetry. 
There  is  nothing,  then,  for  these  limiters  to  do, 
save    to    manifest    their    dissatisfaction    with 
poetry   itself,   which   is   always   limited-unlim- 
ited.    This,   I   think,   was  also  the  case  with 
Emerson,    who    lamented    that    Shakespeare 
(whom  he  nevertheless  placed  in  the  good  com- 
pany of  Homer  and  of  Dante)  "  rested  in  the 
beauty  of  things  and  never  took  the  step  of 
investigating  the   virtue   that   resides   in   sym- 
bols," which  seemed  to  be  inevitable  for  such 


a  genius,  and  that  **  he  converted  the  elements 
awaiting  his  commands,"  into  a  diversion,  and 
gave  **  half  truths  to  half  men  " :  whereas,  ac- 
cording to  Emerson,  the  entire  truth  for  en- 
tire men  could  only  be  given  by  a  personage 
whom  the  world  still  awaits.  To  Emerson, 
this  personage  seemed  most  attractive,  but  to 
others  he  may  possibly  perhaps  seem  as  little 
amiable  as  Antichrist:  he  called  him  "  the  poet- 
priest." 


CRITICISM 


301 


M 


CHAPTER  XI 

SHAKESPEAREAN  CRITICISM 

Criticism  of  Shakespeare,  like  every  criti- 
cism, has  followed  and  expressed  the  progress 
and  alternations  of  the  philosophy  of  art,  or 
aesthetic;  it  has  been  strong  or  weak,  profound 
or  superficial,  well-balanced  or  one-sided,  ac- 
cording to  the  doctrines  that  have  there  been 
realised.  Their  history  would  form  an  excel- 
lent History  of  Aesthetic,  because  the  fame  of 
Shakespeare  became  widespread,  concurrently 
with  the  spread  of  aesthetic  theory,  with  its 
liberation  from  external  norms  and  concepts, 
and  its  penetration  to  the  heart  of  its  subject. 
Shakespeare's  poetry  in  its  turn  stimulated  this 
deepening  of  the  theory  of  aesthetic,  by  its  re- 
velation of  a  poetic  world,  for  emotion  and  ad- 
miration, in  appearance  at  least,  very  different 
from  what  had  previously  passed  as  its  sole 
and  perfect  example.  But  since  we  are  oc- 
cupied at  the  present  moment  with  Shakespeare 

and  not  with  aesthetic  theory,  we  shall  touch 

300 


only  upon  certain  points  of  this  criticism,  in 
order  the  more  firmly  to  establish  by  indirect 
proof  the  judgment  expressed  above,  and  to 
indicate  certain  obstacles,  which  the  student  of 
Shakespeare  will  meet  with  in  critical  literature 
relating  to  that  poet.  Our  description  and 
definition  of  them  may  render  avoidable  cer- 
tain of  the  most  common  errors. 

Among  these  must  be  included  (not  in  the 
seat  of  criticism,  but  in  the  entrance-hall  and 
at  the  gates)  what  may  be  called  exclamatory 
criticism,  which  instead  of  understanding  a  poet 
in  his  particularity,  his  finite-infinity,  drowns 
him  beneath  a  flood  of  superlatives.  This  is 
the  method  employed  by  English  writers  to- 
wards Shakespeare  (I  am  bound  to  admit  that 
the  Italians  do  the  same  as  regards  Dante). 
An  example  of  this  habit,  selected  from  innum- 
erable others,  is  Swinburne's  book,  from  which 
we  learn  that  "  it  would  be  better  that  the 
world  should  lose  all  the  books  it  contains 
rather  than  the  plays  of  Shakespeare";  that 
Shakespeare  is  "  the  supreme  creator  of  men  " ; 
that  he  **  stands  alone,"  and  at  the  most  might 
admit  **  Homer  on  his  right  and  Dante  on  his 
left  hand";  then,  as  to  individual  plays,  we 
learn  that  the  trilogy  of  Henry  IV-V  suffices 


302 


CRITICISM 


to  reveal  him  as  "  the  greatest  playwright  of 
the  world,"  that  the  Dream  stands  **  without 
and  above  any  possible  or  imaginable  criticism." 
Thus  he  continues,  puffing  out  his  cheeks  to  find 
hyperboles,  which  themselves  finally  turn  out 
to  be  inferior  to  hyperbolic  requirements. 
Sometimes  such  exclamations  not  only  border 
on  the  ridiculous,  but  fall  right  into  it,  as  is 
the  case  with  Carlyle,  who  stood  in  perplexity 
before  the  hypothetical  dilemma,  as  to  whether 
England  could  better  afford  to  lose  "the  empire 
of  India  or  Shakespeare."  Victor  Hugo,  more 
generous,  and  an  admirer  of  the  ocean,  con- 
stituted a  series  of  hommes  oceans,  where  the 
tragic  poet  of  Albion  found  a  place  alongside 
of  Aeschylus,  Dante,  Michael-Angelo,  Isaiah 
and  Juvenal. 

Another  style  of  criticism,  by  images  to  be 
found  in  works  that  are  estimable  in  other  re- 
spects, is  somewhat  akin  to  this  criticism  with- 
out criticism,  besides  being  far  more  justifiable, 
because,  if  it  does  not  explain,  it  tries  at  least 
to  give,  as  though  in  a  poetical  translation,  a 
synthetic  impression  of  Shakespeare's  art  and 
of  the  physiognomy  of  his  various  works.  It 
describes  the  works  of  Shakespeare  by  means 
of  landscapes  and  other  pictures,  as  Herder 


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and  other  writers  of  the  Sturm  und  Drang 
period  delighted  in  doing.  Coleridge  too  did 
likewise  and  Hazlitt  even  more  often,  as  may 
be  shown  by  an  extract  from  the  letter  of  a 
certain  Miss  Florence  O'Brien,  on  King  Lear, 
to  be  found  in  well-nigh  all  books  that  deal  with 
this  tragedy.  She  begins:  "  This  play  is  like 
a  tempestuous  night:  the  first  scene  is  like  a 
wild  sunset,  grandiose  and  terrible,  with  gusts 
of  wind  and  rumblings  of  thunder,  which  an- 
nounce the  imminence  of  the  hurricane:  then 
comes  a  furious  tempest  of  madness  and  folly, 
through  which  we  see  darkly  the  monstrous 
and  unnatural  figures  of  Goneril  and  Regan"; 
et  cetera.  The  danger  of  such  poetical  varia- 
tions is  that  of  superimposing  one  art  on  an- 
other, and  of  leading  astray  or  of  distracting 
the  attention  from  the  genuine  features  of  the 
original  to  be  enjoyed  and  understood,  in  the 
attempt  to  render  its  effect. 

Let  us  pass  over  biographical-aesthetic  criti- 
cism: its  fundamental  error  and  the  arbitrary 
judgments  with  which  it  disturbs  both  bio- 
graphy and  the  criticism  of  art  have  already 
been  sufficiently  illustrated;  and  let  us  also  pass 
over  the  aesthetic  criticism  of  philologists,  who 
imagine  themselves  to  be  interpreting  and  judg- 


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flII 


i 


I 


ing  poetry,  when  they  are  talking  mere  philol- 
ogy   and   uttering   ineptitudes    prepared   with 
infinite  pains.     Being  confined  to  citing  but  one 
example  of  their  method,  I  would  select  for  that 
purpose  Furnivairs  introduction  to  the  Leopold 
Shakespeare.     I   fail  to  understand  why  this 
introduction  is  so  highly  esteemed  and  rever- 
enced.    Furnivall  too,  when  he  contrives  not 
to  lose  himself  in  exclamations  and  attempts 
poetry,     ("who    could    praise    Falstaff    sufli- 
ciently?*'   "who  could  fail  to  love  Percy?" 
"  the  countess  mother  in  All's  Well  resembles 
one  of  Titian's  old  ladies  ";  etc.),  amuses  him- 
self by  establishing  links  between  the  plays. 
These  he  discovers  in  the  situations,  in  the  ac- 
tion and  elsewhere,  regarding  the  works  ex- 
ternally and  from  a  general  point  of  view. 
Thus  he  discovers  a  connection  between  Julius 
Caesar  and  Hamlet,  in  the  repetition  of  the 
name  of  "  Caesar,"  which  is  found  thrice  in  the 
latter  play,  in  the  mouth  of  Horatio,  of  Pol- 
onius  and  of  Hamlet,  on  the  occasion  of  both 
seeing  a  ghost,  in  Hamlet's  feeling  that  he  must 
avenge  his  father  like  Antonius  Caesar,  and 
in  the  likeness  of  character  between  Brutus  and 
Hamlet's    father.     Thus    he    attains    to    the 
ridiculous,  as  Carlyle  and  Swinburne  by  another 


route,  when,  for  instance,  he  affirms  that  **  in 
a  certain  sense  Hotspur  (the  fiery  Hotspur  of 
Henry  IV)  is  Kate  (that  is  to  say,  the  shrew 
in  the  Taming  of  the  Shrew),  become  a  man 
and  bearing  armour !  " 

We  shall  also  not  dwell  upon  rhetorical  criti- 
cism, which  employs  the  method  of  "  styles." 
This    method,    after    having    rejected    Shake- 
speare, because  he  does  not  pay  attention  to  the 
different  styles  of  writing   (French  criticism), 
and  having  then  proceeded  to  reconcile  him 
with  styles   as   explained  by   Aristotle   In   his 
Poetics,  when  these  are  well  understood    (Les- 
sing) ,  having  sung  his  praises  as  the  "  genius 
of    the    drama,"    the    "Homer    of    dramatic 
style"   (Gervinus),  is  still  seeking  for  what  is 
"his  alone  and  individually"  in  "the  treat- 
ment "  of  the  "  drama."     This  it  will  never 
find,  because  such  a  thing  as  a  "  dramatic  style  " 
does  not  exist  in  the  world  of  poetry :  what  does 
exist  is  simply  and  solely  "poetry."     These 
questions  of  literary  style  are  now  rather  out  of 
date :  they  survive  rather  in  the  lazy  repetition 
of  words  and  forms  than  in  actual  substance. 
It  is  certainly  surprising  to  know  that  there 
still  exist  persons  who  examine  what  are  called 
the  "  historical  plays,"  and  because  they  are 


3o6 


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**  historical,"  compare  them  with  history  books, 
blaming  the  poet  for  not  having  given  to  Caesar 
the  part  that  should  have  been  his  in  Julius 
Caesar,  and  quoting  in  support  of  their  argu- 
ment (like  Brandes)  the  histories  of  Mommsen 
and  of  Boissier.  And  there  are  also  fossils 
who  discuss  in  the  language  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  verisimilitude,  incongruity  or  multi- 
plicity of  plot,  congruity  or  reverse  of  charac- 
ters, crudeness  of  expression,  and  observation 
or  failure  to  observe  by  Shakespeare  the  rules 
of  dramatic  composition.  To  German  criti- 
cism of  the  speculative  period  and  to  the  vast 
monographs  that  it  produced  upon  Shakespeare 
must  be  given  the  credit  of  having  tried  to 
discover  and  determine  the  soul  of  Shake- 
speare's poetry.  We  must  also  admit,  as  a  gen- 
eral quality  of  scientific  German  books  on  lit- 
erature, even  when  these  are  of  the  heaviest 
and  most  full  of  mistakes,  that  they  do  make  us 
feel  the  presence  of  problems  not  yet  solved, 
whereas  other  books,  more  easy  to  read,  better 
written  and  perhaps  less  full  of  mistakes,  are 
less  fruitful  of  thoughts  that  arise  by  repercus- 
sion or  reaction.  Unfortunately,  these  German 
writers  imagined  that  soul  to  reside  in  a  sort  of 
philosophical,    moral,    political  and    historical 


teaching,  upon  which  Shakespeare  was  supposed 
to  have  woven  his  plays.     This  was  a  flagrant 
offence  against  all  sense  of  poetry,  for  not  only 
did  they  forget  the  poetical  in  favour  of  the 
non-poetical;  and  attributed  equal  value  to  all 
of  Shakespeare's  widely  differing  works,  what- 
ever their  real  value,  but  also,  since  this  non- 
poetical   teaching  had   no   existence,   they   set 
about  creating  it  on  their  own  account  by  means 
of  various  subtleties,  and  of  a  sort  of  allegori- 
cal exegesis.     Thus  in  Ulrici,  Gervinus,  Kreys- 
sig,  Vischer  and  others  like  them,  we  read  with 
astonishment,  that  in  Richard  HI  (to  take  a 
historical  play)   Shakespeare  wished  to  impart 
"  an  immortal  doctrine  upon  the  divine  right 
of  kings  and  their  intangibility,"   and  at  the 
same  time  to  give  warning  that  it  does  not 
suffice  a  king  to  be  conscious  of  his  right  divine, 
unless  he  be  prepared  to  maintain  it  with  force 
against  force.     These  writers  have  an  almost 
prophetic  vision  that  Germany  will  need  this 
lesson  in  the  case  of  its  romantic  king,  Fred- 
erick William  IV  of  Prussia !     In  the  Tempest 
again    (to  take   an  imaginative  play)    Shake- 
speare is  supposed  by  them  to  have  desired  to 
give  his  opinion  upon  the  great  question,  com- 
mon to  our  time  and  his,  as  to  the  right  of 


y 


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fl 


Europeans  to  colonise  and  the  need  of  subject- 
ing the  native  savage  by  means  of  whip  and 
sword,  free  of  any  scruple  dictated  by  false  sen- 
timent.    Finally  (to  take  a  last  example  from 
the  great  tragedies),  they  held  that  the  ideal 
teaching  of  Othello  is  that  punishment  awaits 
unequal  marriages,  marriage  between  persons 
of  different  race,  or  different  social  condition, 
or  of  different  age;  and  that  Desdemona  de- 
served her  cruel  fate,  for  she  was  weighed  down 
with  sin,  having  disobeyed  her  old  father,  im- 
prudently and  over-warmly  supported  the  cause 
of  Cassio,  and  shown  negligence  and  lack  of 
care    in    handling    the    famous    handkerchief, 
which  she  let  fall  at  her  feet!     We  can  only 
reply  to  all  this  in  the  witty  words  of  Riimelin, 
a  propos  of  such  incredible  interpretations  of 
Shakespeare's  catastrophes,  to  the  effect  that 
this   "  dramatic  justice,''   so   dear  to  German 
aestheticians,  is  **  like  Draco's  sanguinary  code, 
which  decreed  a  single  penalty  for  all  misdeeds : 
death." 

Numberless  are  the  shocks  that  the  artistic 
consciousness  receives  from  such  a  method  as 
this.  Gervinus,  who  professed  **  an  even  firmer 
belief  in  Shakespeare's  infallibility  in  matters 
of  morality  than  in  his  lack  of  aesthetic  de- 


fects," is  indignant  with  readers  disposed  to 
find  hard  and  cruel  Prince  Henry's  repulse  on 
coming  to  the  throne,  of  his  old  friend  Falstaff, 
the  companion  of  his  merry  adventures.     He 
gravely    declares    that    this    proves    modern 
readers   to  be   "  far   inferior  both  to   Prince 
Henry    and    to    Shakespeare    in    nobility    and 
ethical  fervour  ";  whereas  it  is  evident  that  the 
poor  readers  are  right,  because  we  have  to  deal 
here  with  poetical  images,  not  with  practical 
and  moral  acts,   and  readers  justly  feel  that 
Shakespeare  was  on  this  occasion  obeying  cer- 
tain ends  outside  the  province  of  art.     Falstaff 
is  sympathetic  to  every  reader:  even  Gervinus 
does  not  dare  to  declare  him  antipathetic,  but 
sets  about  finding  plausible  explanations  for  this 
illicit  attractiveness.     He  produces  three:  the 
artistic  perfection  of  the  representation,  the 
logical  perfection  of  the  type,  and  the  struggle 
between  the  will  for  pleasure  that  always  stim- 
ulates Falstaff,  and  his  old  age  and  his  paunch, 
which  hinder  or  make  him  impotent,  and  accord- 
ing to  Gervinus,  are  bestowed  upon  him,  in  or- 
der to  appease  or  mitigate  our  shocked  sense 
of  ethical  severity.     But  the  only  and  obvious 
explanation  of  Falstaff's  sympathetic  attractive- 
ness is  the  sympathy  which  the  poet  himself  felt 


3IO 


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in  his  genial  way  for  him  as  a  human  force.  In 
like  manner,  what  we  have  held  to  be  an  error 
of  composition,  such  as  the  story  of  Gloucester 
and  his  sons  forming  a  parallel  with  that  of 
Lear,  is  held  to  be  a  miracle  by  the  professors 
aforesaid,  because,  as  says  Ulrici,  the  poet 
wished  to  teach  us  that  "  moral  corruption  is 
not  isolated,  but  diffused  among  the  most  noble 
families,  representative  of  all  the  others/* 
Vischer  holds  a  similar  view,  to  the  effect  that 
Shakespeare  "  intended  to  show  that,  if  im- 
piety is  widely  diffused,  society  becomes  impos- 
sible, and  the  world  rocks  to  its  foundation; 
but  one  instance  of  this  did  not  suffice,  so  he 
had  to  accumulate  the  most  terrifying  confirma- 
tion of  the  fact.*' 

These  professors  are  also  unanimous  in  re- 
jecting the  interpretation  of  the  words :  **  He 
has  no  sons !  **  uttered  by  Macduff,  when  he 
learns  that  Macbeth  has  caused  his  wife  and 
little  son  to  be  murdered,  as  they  are  under- 
stood by  the  ingenuous  reader,  namely,  that 
Macduff  thus  expresses  his  rage  at  not  being 
able  to  take  an  equal  vengeance  upon  Macbeth, 
by  slaying  his  sons.  Their  reason  for  this  is 
that  such  a  thing  would  be  unworthy  of  so 
upright  and  honourable  a  man  as  Macduff.     As 


though  such  honourable  men  as  Macduff  are 
not  subject  to  the  impulse  of  anger  and  capa- 
ble of  at  least  momentary  blindness ;  as  though 
the  eyes,  even  of  Manzoni*s  Father  Christo- 
pher did  not  sometimes  blaze  **  with  a  sudden 
vivacity,**  though  he  kept  them  as  a  rule  fixed 
on  the  ground,  as  if  (in  the  word  of  the  author) , 
they  were  two  queer-tempered  horses,  driven 
by  a  coachman,  whom  they  know  to  be  their 
master,  yet  they  will  nevertheless  indulge  in  an 
occasional  frolic,  for  which  they  immediately 
atone  with  a  good  pull  on  the  bit. 

That  is  what  happens  to  Macduff,  who  as- 
sumes possession  of  himself  when  he  hears 
Malcolm's  words  that  immediately  fol- 
low. "Dispute  it  like  a  man,** — and  says: 
"  I  shall  do  so;  but  I  must  also  feel  it  like  a 
man.** 

Quitting  psychology  and  returning  to  poetry, 
nothing  short  of  Malcolm's  savage  outburst 
can  express  his  torment,  in  the  climax  of  the 
dialogue.  Were  Shakespeare  himself  to  come 
forward  and  declare  that  he  meant  what  those 
insipid,  moralising  professors  declare  that  he 
meant,  Shakespeare  would  be  wrong,  and  who- 
ever said  that  he  was  wrong,  would  be  in  better 
accordance  with  his  genius  than  he  himself,  for 


♦!..-S 


312 


CRITICISM 


he  was  a  genius,  only  upon  condition  of  re- 
maining true  to  the  logic  of  poetry. 

We  could  fill  a  large  volume  with  the  misin- 
terpretations of  moralising  and  philosophising 
Shakespearean  critics,  but  it  is  hoped  that 
having  here  demonstrated  the  absurdity  of  the 
principle,  readers  should  be  able  to  recognise  it 
for  themselves,  in  its  sources  and  methods  of 
approach. 

But  it  would  need  a  series  of  volumes  to 
catalogue  all  the  absurdities  of  another  form  of 
Shakespearean  criticism,  which  differs  from  the 
preceding,  in  being  in  full  flower  and  vigour  to- 
day: we  refer  to  objectivistic  criticism.     The 
reason  for  this  is  that  few  are  yet  fully  aware 
that  every  kind  and  example  of  art  is  only  suc- 
cessful to  the  extent  that  it  is  irradiated  with 
a  sentiment,  which  determines  and  controls  it  in 
all  its  parts.     This  used  to  be  denied  of  cer- 
tain forms  of  poetry,  particularly  of  the  dra- 
matic ;  hence  the  false,  but  extremely  logical  de- 
duction of  Leopardi,  that  the  dramatic  was  the 
lowest  and  least  noble  kind  of  poetry,  because 
it  was  the  most  remote  and  alien  from  pure 
form,  which  is  the  lyric.     Shakespeare's  objec- 
tivity  of    "  representation ''    and    the    perfect 
"  reality "  of  his  characters,  which  live  their 


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own    lives    independently    are    often    praised. 
This  can  be  said  in  a  certain  sense,  but  must  not 
be  taken  literally,  for  it  is  metaphorical;  be- 
cause, when  we  would  reach  and  handle  those 
images    of    the    poet's    sentiment,    there    may 
not  be  an  "explosion"    (as  happened  when 
Faust    threw    himself   upon    the    phantom    of 
Helen),  but  in  any  case  they  will  lose  their 
shape,  fall  into  shreds  and  vanish  before  our 
eyes.     In  their  place  will  appear  an  infinite  num- 
ber of  insoluble  questions  as  to  the  manner  of 
understanding  or  reestablishing  their  solidity 
and  coherence.     What  is  known  as  the  Ham- 
let'Litteratur  is  the  most  appalling  of  all  these 
manifestations  and  it  is  daily  on  the  increase. 
Historians,   psychologists,   lovers   of   amorous 
adventures,  gossips,  police-spies,  criminologists 
investigate   the   character,   the   intentions,   the 
thoughts,  the  affections,  the  temperament,  the 
previous  life,  the  tricks  they  played,  the  secrets 
they  hid,  their  family  and  social  relations,  and 
so  on,  and  crowd,  without  any  real  claim  to  do 
so,    round  the   "  characters   of   Shakespeare,'' 
detaching  them  from  the  creative  centre  of  the 
play  and  transferring  them  into  a  pretended  ob- 
jective field,  as  though  they  were  made  of  flesh 
and  blood. 


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Among  those  Inclined  to  such  realistic  and 
antipoetical  investigation,  some  there  are,  who 
see  in  Hamlet  a  pleasure-seeker,  called  to  the 
achievement  of  an  undertaking  beyond  his 
powers ;  others  find  in  him  a  scrupulous  person, 
who  struggles  between  the  call  to  vengeance 
and  his  better  moral  conscience,  or  one  who 
studies  vengeance,  but  without  staining  his  con- 
science.  For  others  again,  he  is  an  artistic 
genius,  inclined  to  contemplation,  but  ill- 
adapted  to  action,  or  a  partial  genius  not 
adapted  to  artistic  creation,  or  a  pure  soul,  or 
an  impure  and  diseased  soul,  or  a  decadent,  or  a 
sexual  psychopath,  obsessed  with  lust  and  in- 
cest. We  find  others  able  to  discover  that  he  in- 
herited the  characteristics  of  a  father,  who  was 
tyrannical,  vicious  and  a  bad  husband,  and  of  an 
uncle  possessed  of  a  lofty  soul  and  capacity  for 
governing  a  kingdom.  Finally,  some  have  even 
suspected  him  of  not  being  a  man,  but  a  woman, 
daughter  of  the  king,  disguised  as  a  man,  and 
for  that  reason  and  for  no  other,  rejecting  the 
beautiful  Ophelia  and  seeking  Horatio,  with 
whom  she  (Hamlet)  was  secretly  in  love.  And 
what  kind  of  maiden  was  Ophelia?  Was  she 
naive  and  innocent,  or  was  she  not  rather  a 
malicious  little  court  lady?     Perhaps  she  too 


had  her  secret,  which  would  explain  her  strange 
relations  with  Hamlet.     An  English  enquirer 
has  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  Ophelia  was 
not  chaste,  that  she  had  given  birth  to  a  baby, 
and  what  is  more,  to  a  baby  whose  father  was 
not  Hamlet,  and  that  this  was  the  reason  why 
Hamlet  advised  her  to  get  her  to  a  nunnery,  and 
the  priest  refused  to  give  her  body  Christian 
burial.     Her  brother,   Laertes,   had  lived   in 
Paris,   and  having  there  learned  French  cus- 
toms, was  for  this  reason  so  ready  to  accept 
the  advice  of  the  king  to  use  a  poisoned  sword. 
According  to  some,   Macbeth  was  so  power- 
fully restrained  by  his  own  conscience,  that, 
save  for  his  wife,  he  would  never  have  satisfied 
his  ambition  and  slain  King  Duncan.     But  ac- 
cording to  others,^  he  had  meditated  regicide  for 
some  time  and  had  deferred  his  design,  because 
he  hoped  to  succeed  in  a  legitimate  manner, 
were  the  king  to  die  without  an  heir.     But 
he  broke  truce,  when  the  king  contemplated 
bestowing  upon  his  son  the  title  of  Duke  of 
Cumberland,    that   is   to   say.   Crown   Prince. 
For  many.  Lady  Macbeth  is  a  cold,  pitiless 
woman,  but  for  others  she  is  tender  and  sweet 
by  nature;  for  some,  she  is  madly  in  love  with 
her  husband,  for  others,  madly  incensed  with 


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him,  because,  judging  by  his  undoubted  mihtary 
prowess,  she  had  at  first  believed  him  to  possess 
the  great  soul  of  a  conqueror,  and  then,  when 
she  found  him  vile  with  human  mildness,  sen- 
sible  of  scruples  and  remorse  perturbed  at  the 
results  of  his  own  deeds,  to  the  extent  of  ex- 
periencing  hallucinations  and  behaving  rashly, 
she  is  consumed  with  scorn  and  dies  of  a  broken 
heart,  on  the  fall  of  that  idol  and  which  she 
had  aspired,  the  perfect  criminal. 

Othello  has  been  by  some  identified  with  a 
Moor,  a  Berber,  a  Mauri tanian,  for  others  he 
is  without  doubt  a  bestial  negro,  boiling  with 
African  blood.  lago  is  generally  character- 
ised as  amoral  and  Machiavellian,  a  true 
Italian;  but  others  deem  him  worthy  the  name 
of  ''  honest  lago,''  because  he  was  good,  amia- 
ble, serviceable  in  all  things  —  when  his  per- 
sonal  ambition  was  not  at  stake. 

By  some,  Desdemona  has  been  held  to  be  de- 
sirable as  a  wife  (others,  on  the  other  hand, 
would  be  ready  to  marry  Cordelia  or  Opheha, 
others  Imogen  or  Hermione,  others  the  nun 
Isabel,  and  finally  there  are  some  who  would 
prefer  Portia, .  as  ''  an  ideal  woman,"  and  a 
"  perfect  wife  '') ;  but  as  regards  this,  there  are 
some  who  have  divined  the  secret  tendencies  of 


Desdemona  and  have  had  no  hesitation  in  de- 
fining her  as  **  a  virtual  courtesan." 

Then  again :  what  was  the  difference  of  age 
between  Othello  and  Desdemona?  Had 
Othello  seen  the  wonderful  things  existing  in 
other  countries  of  which  he  speaks,  or  had  he 
imagined  them,  or  had  he  been  told  of  them? 
Perhaps  he  had  enjoyed  the  wife  of  lago,  which 
would  explain  the  regard  he  has  for  the  hus- 
band? 

Brutus,  until  lately,  passed  for  an  idealist 
tormented  with  ideals;  but  more  accurate  in- 
vestigations have  revealed  him  to  be  a  hypo- 
crite in  the  Puritan  manner,  who,  by  means  of 
repeated  lies,  ends  by  himself  believing  the 
noble  motives  to  be  found  on  his  lips;  however, 
things  turn  out  badly  and  he  finally  receives  the 
punishment  he  deserves. 

Falstaff's  religious  origin  has  been  discov- 
ered: he  was  a  Lollard,  and  thus  a  declared 
eudemonist,  convinced  of  the  nullity  of  the 
world  and  of  the  inutility  of  life,  living  from 
minute  to  minute.  He  is  not  really  a  liar  and 
a  boaster,  but  an  imaginative  person ;  nor  is  he 
vile,  save  in  appearance ;  he  should  be  regarded 
rather  as  an  opportunist. 

We  read  these  and  an  infinity  of  other  not 


I 
I-   '1 


111 


n 


3i8 


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less  astonishing  statements  in  the  volumes, 
opuscules  and  articles  which  are  published  every 
year  upon  the  characters  of  Shakespeare. 
The  effect  of  such  discussions,  even  where  most 
sensibly  written,  is  never  to  clear  up  or  decide 
anything,  but  on  the  contrary,  to  darken  what 
appeared  perfectly  certain,  and  gave  no  reason 
for  any  difficulty,  to  render  uncertain  what  was 
clearly  determined.  Such  works  give  rise  fur- 
ther to  the  doubt  that  Shakespeare  was  perhaps 
so  inexpert  a  writer  as  not  to  be  able  to  repre- 
sent his  own  conceptions,  nor  express  his  own 
thoughts. 

But  when  we  do  not  allow  ourselves  to  be 
caught  in  the  meshes  of  these  fictitious  prob- 
lems, of  which  we  indicated  the  proton  pseudos, 
when  we  resolutely  banish  them  from  the  mind, 
and  read  and  reread  Shakespeare's  plays  with- 
out morf  ado,  everything  remains  or  becomes 
clear  again,  everything,  that  is  to  say,  which 
should  (as  is  natural)  be  clear  for  the  ends  of 
poetry,  in  a  poetical  work.  As  Grillparzer  re- 
marked in  his  time,  that  very  Hamlet,  whom 
Goethe  took  such  trouble  to  explain  psychologi- 
cally, and  over  whom  so  many  hundreds  of  in- 
terpreters have  so  diligently  toiled,  **  is  under- 
stood with  perfect  ease  by  the  tailor  or  the 


bootmaker  sitting  in  the  gallery,  who  under- 
stands the  whole  of  the  play  by  raising  his  own 
feelings  to  its  level." 

From    this    derives    another    consequence: 
Shakespeare  has  been  loudly  praised  for  his 
portentous  fidelity  to  nature  and  reality,  but  at 
the  same  time  the  critics,  as  quoted  above,  have 
placed  obstacles  of  various  sorts  in  the  way  of 
those  who  would  understand  him  so  it  has  been 
freely  stated  that  Shakespeare  is  certainly  a 
great  poet,  but  that  his  method  is  not  that  of 
**  fidelity,"  to  nature,  on  the  contrary,  he  vio- 
lates "  reality  "  at  every  turn,  creating  charac- 
ters and  situation,  **  which  are  not  found  in 
nature."     It  would  be  better  to  say  simply  that 
Shakespeare,  like  every  poet,  is  neither  in  ac- 
cordance nor  in  disaccordance  with  external  re- 
ality (which  for  that  matter  is  what  each  one 
of  us  likes  to  make  and  to  imagine  in  his  own 
way),  for  the  reason  that  he  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it,  being  intent  upon  the  creation  of  his 
own  spiritual  reality. 

The  third  great  misadventure  that  has  be- 
fallen Shakespeare,  after  those  of  the  moralis- 
ing and  psychological-objectivistic  critics,  is  his 
transference,  we  will  not  call  it  his  promotion, 
to  the  position  of  a  German,  opposed  to  that  of 


■A- 


320 


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K 


» 


a  Latin  or  neo-Latin  poet.  It  is  not  difficult  to 
trace  the  origin  of  this  transference,  when  we 
remember  that  Shakespeare  was  looked  upon, 
both  by  his  contemporaries  and  yet  more  so 
when  rediscovered  in  the  eighteenth  century,  as 
a  spontaneous,  rough,  natural,  popular  poet, 
just  the  opposite  of  the  cultured,  mannered 
school,  in  which,  however,  he  had  shown  evi- 
dence of  prowess  with  the  lesser  poems  and 

the  sonnets. 

This  conception  of  his  as  a  natural  poet  is 
found  in  the  first  school  of  the  new  German  lit- 
erature, known  as  the  Sturm  und  Drang,  which 
cultivated  the  idea  of  ''  genius  '' ;  and  from  this 
arose  the  idea  of  Shakespeare  as  the  expression 
of  "  pure  virgin  genius,  ignorant  of  rules  and 
limits,  a  force  as  irresistible  as  those  of  na- 
ture "  (Gerstenberg) .  And  since  the  new  Ger- 
man poets  and  men  of  letters  greatly  admired 
him,  and  as  has  been  said,  the  new  Aesthetic 
understood  him  much  better  than  the  old  Poetic 
had  done  or  been  able  to  do,  instead  of  this 
better  sympathy  and  intelligence  being  attrib- 
uted to  the  spiritual  dispositions  of  the  Ger- 
mans of  that  period  and  to  the  progress  that 
they  were  effecting  in  the  life  of  thought,  it  was 
attributed  to  affinity  and  relationship,   which 


;j^ 


CRITICISM 


321 


was  supposed  to  connect  the  German  spirit  with 
that  of  Shakespeare.  It  is  true  that  this  theory 
was  soon  found  to  lack  foundation,  because  the 
best  German  critics,  among  whom  were  August 
William  Schlegel,  proved  that  there  was  as 
much  art  and  regularity  in  Shakespeare  as  in 
any  other  poet,  although  they  were  not  the  same 
in  him  as  in  others,  and  he  did  not  obey  con- 
tingent and  arbitrary  rules. 

It  is  also  true  that  to  a  Frenchman  was  due 
the  first  revelation  of  Shakespeare  outside  his 
own  country:  Voltaire,  with  his  odi  et  amo, 
has  always  been  blamed  and  held  up  to  ridicule 
for  the  negative  side  of  his  criticism,  but  the 
positive  side  of  it,  the  mental  courage,  the 
freshness  of  mental  impressions,  which  his  in- 
terest in  Shakespeare,  his  admiration  for  his 
sublimity,  deserved,  have  not  been  sufficiently 
remarked.  But  it  is  likewise  true  that  France 
has  never  understood  Shakespeare  well,  owing 
to  her  classical  tradition  in  literature  and  her 
intellectualist  tradition  in  philosophy,  though 
we  do  not  forget  her  fugitive  enthusiasms  for 
the  poet.  Even  to-day,  Maeterlinck  notes  "  la 
profonde  ignorance'*  that  still  reigns  "  de 
Toeuvre  shakespearienne,"  even  among  "  les 
plus   lettres."     This   afforded  an  opportunity 


322 


CRITICISM 


for  underlining  the  antithesis  between  "  Ger- 
man "  and  "  French  "  taste,  which  was  soon, 
but  without  any  justification,  expanded  into 
"  Latin  "  taste. 

The  English  of  that  period,  both  in  speech 
and  literature,  were  almost  as  indifferent  to 
Shakespeare  as  were  the  French.  This  was  ob- 
served and  commented  upon  in  a  lively  manner, 
among  others  by  Schlegel,  Tieck,  Platen  and 
Heine.  However,  the  new  methods  of  Ger- 
man criticism  soon  made  their  influence  felt  in 
England  (Coleridge,  Hazlitt),  and  it  seemed 
to  the  Germans  that  these  writers  had  pre- 
served the  true  tradition  of  the  race  and  had 
reillumined  the  fire  that  was  languishing  or  had 
been  altogether  extinguished  among  their 
brethren  of  the  same  race,  and  that  they  had 
dissipated  the  heavy  cloud  of  classical,  French 
and  Latin  taste,  which  was  hanging  over  Eng- 
land. To  their  real  merit  in  recognising  the 
fame  of  Shakespeare  and  their  profound  study 
of  the  poet,  and  to  the  false  interpretation  that 
they  gave  of  these  merits  by  attributing  them 
to  the  virtue  of  their  race,  were  added,  for  well 
known  political  reasons,  German  pride  and  self- 
conceit,  which  did  the  rest.  All  the  moralising 
critics,  to  whom  we  have  referred,  were  also 


CRITICISM 


323 


critics  imbued  with  the  German  spirit.     They 
united  the  austere  morality,  which  they  discov- 
ered in  Shakespeare  and  his  heroes,  to  celebra- 
tion of  the  German  nature  of  these  qualities  and 
of  the  poet.     They  set  in  opposition  the  gen- 
uine,  rude,   realistic  quality  of  Shakespeare's 
poetry,  to  the  artificial,  cold,  schematic  poetry 
of  the  Latins.     They  celebrated  the  German- 
ism of  a  Henry  IV  (his  wild  youth  is  just  that 
of  a  German  youth,  says  Gervinus;  it  is  the 
genius  of  the  German  race,  with  its  incorrupti- 
ble health,  its  strength  of  marrow,  its  infinite 
depths  of  feeling,  beneath  a  hard  and  angular 
exterior,  its  childlike  humility,  its  wealth  of  hu- 
mour, etcetera,  etcetera,  etcetera,  says  Kreys- 
sig),  of  a  Hamlet  (naturally,  because  he  is  rep- 
resented as  a  student  of  Wittenberg)   and  so 
on,  through  the  Ophelias  and  the  Cordelias, 
and  even  the  characters  of  the  comedies,  such 
as  Benedick  and  Biron  (this  last  "  possessing  a 
character  entirely  German,"  "  with  the  harsh- 
ness of  a  Saxon,"  humorous,  remote  from  senti- 
mentality and  affectation,  and  therefore  "  out 
of  place  among  the  gallantries  of  Latin  so- 
ciety " —  all  the  above  is  taken  from  Gervinus)  ^ 
Shakespeare's  place  "  is  in  the  Pantheon  of 
the  Germanic  people,  in  the  sanctuary  richly 


324 


CRITICISM 


CRITICISM 


325 


f 


adorned  with  all  the  gods  and  demons  of  this 
race,  the  most  vigorous  in  life,  the  best  capable 
of  development,  the  most  widely  diffused  of  all 
races."  He  stands,  either  beside  Durer  and 
Rembrandt,  or  on  a  spur  of  Parnassus,  facing 
Homer  and  Aeschylus  on  another  spur,  some- 
times permitting  Dante  to  stand  at  his  side  — 
Dante  was  of  German  origin  — ,  while  the  im- 
potent crowd  of  the  poets  of  Latin  race  seethes 
at  his  feet.  For  Carriere,  he  is  the  mouthpiece 
of  the  German  spirit  in  England,  while  for  an- 
other,  he  is  England's  permanent  ambassador 
to  Germany,  accredited  to  the  whole  German 

people. 

Both  French  and  Italian  critics  also  gave 
credence  to  this  boasting,  sometimes  echoing 
the  theory  of  difference  between  the  two  differ- 
ent arts,  that  of  the  north  and  that  of  the 
south,  romantic  and  classic,  realistic  and  ideal- 
istic or  abstract,  passionate  or  rhetorical,  while 
others  bowed  reverently  before  the  superiority 
of  the  former.  In  the  recent  war  took  place  a 
rapid  change  of  style,  but  not  of  mental  assump- 
tions. Both  French  and  Italians  mocked  and 
expressed  their  contempt  for  the  rough  and  vio- 
lent poetry  of  Germany,  and  even  Shakespeare 
did  not  have  une  bonne  fresse  on  the  occasion 


of  his  centenary,  which  took  place  during  the 
second  year. 

But  return  to  serious  matters,  it  seems  unde- 
niable that  the  historical  origin  of  Shakespeare 
is  to  be  found  in  the  Renaissance,  which  is  gen- 
erally admitted  to  have  been  chiefly  an  Italian 
movement.     Shakespeare  got  from  Italy,  not 
only  a  great  part,  both  of  his  form  and  of  his 
material,  but  what  is  of  greater  moment,  many 
thoughts  that  went  to  form  his  vision  of  reality. 
In  addition  to  this,  he  obtained  from  Italy  that 
literary  education,  to  which  all  English  writers 
of  his  time  submitted.     One  may  think,  how- 
ever, what  one  likes  as  to  the  historical  deriva- 
tion of  Shakespeare's  poetical  material  and  of 
his  literary  education :  the  essential  point  to  re- 
member is  that  the  poetry  had  its  origin  solely 
in  himself;  he  did  not  receive  it  from  without, 
either  from  his  nation,  his  race,  or  from  any 
other  source.     For  this  reason,  divisions  and 
counter-divisions  of  it,  into  Germanic  and  Latin 
poetry,  and  similar  dyads,  based  upon  material 
criteria,  are  without  any  foundation  whatever. 
Shakespeare  cannot  be  a  Germanic  poet,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  in  so  far  as  he  is  a  poet,  he 
is  nothing  but  a  poet  and  does  not  obey  the  law 
of  his  race,  whether  it  be  lex  salica,  wisigothica, 


326 


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327 


L 


il 


langobardica,  anglica  or  any  other  barbarorutn, 
nor  does  he  obey  the  romana  —  he  obeys  only 
the  universally  human  lex  poetica. 

That  a  more  profound  and  a  better  under- 
standing of  Shakespeare  should  have  been 
formed  and  be  steadily  increasing,  in  the  midst 
of  and  because  of  these  and  other  errors,  is  a 
thing  that  we  are  so  ready  to  admit  as  indubit- 
able and  obvious  that  we  take  it  as  understood, 
because  it  always  happens  thus,  in  every  circle 
of  thought  and  in  literary  history  and  criticism 
in  general,  and  so  in  the  particular  history  and 
criticism  of  Shakespeare. 

Our  object  has  not  been,  however,  to  give 
the  history  of  that  criticism,  but  rather  to  select 
those  points  in  it,  which  it  was  advisable  to 
clear  up,  in  order  to  confirm  the  judgment  that 
we  propose  and  defend.  If  erroneous  posi- 
tions of  criticism  serve  by  their  opposition  to 
arouse  correct  thoughts  relating  to  the  poet, 
others,  which  are  not  erroneous,  lead  directly 
to  them.  In  addition  to  the  pages  of  older 
writers,  always  worthy  of  perusal  (though  de- 
voted to  problems  of  different  times),  such  as 
those  of  Herder,  Goethe,  Schlegel,  Coleridge 
and  Manzoni,  the  student  will  find  among  those 
with  whom  he  will  like  to  think  among  the 


Dowdens,  the  Bradleys,  the  Raleighs  of  to-day. 
These  will  inspire  in  him  the  wish  to  continue 
thinking  on  his  own  account  about  the  nature  of 
the  great  poetry  of  Shakespeare. 


CHAPTER  XII 
SHAKESPEARE  AND  OURSELVES 

Shakespeare  (and  this  applies  to  every  in- 
dividual work)  had  a  history,  but  has  one  no 
longer.  He  had  a  history,  which  was  that  of 
his  poetical  sentiment,  of  its  various  changing 
notes,  of  the  various  forms  in  which  it  found 
expression.  He  had  also  (we  must  insist),  an 
individual  history  which  it  is  difficult  to  identify 
united  with  that  of  the  Elizabethan  drama,  to 
which  he  belongs  solely  as  an  actor  and  provider 
of  theatrical  works.  The  general  traits,  which, 
among  many  differences,  he  shares  with  his  con- 
temporaries, predecessors  and  imitators  (even 
when  these  are  more  substantial  than  theatrical 
imitations,  conventions  and  habits)  form  part , 
of  the  history  of  the  Renaissance  in  general  and 
of  the  English  Renaissance  in  particular,  but  do 
not  of  themselves  constitute  the  history  that 
was  properly  speaking  his  own. 

But  he  no  longer  has  this,  because  what  hap- 
pened  afterwards    and  what   happens   in   the 

present,  is  the  history  of  others,  is  our  history, 

328 


OURSELVES 


329 


no  longer  his.     Indeed,  the  histories  of  Shake- 
speare, which  have  been  composed,  considered 
in  the  light  of  later  times  —  and  they  are  still 
being  written  —  have  been  and  are  understood, 
in  a  first  sense,  as  the  history  of  the  criticism 
of  his  works;  and  it  is  clear  that  in  this  case,  it 
is  the  history  of  us,  his  critics,  the  history  of  crit- 
icism  and   of  philosophy,   no   longer   that  of 
Shakespeare.     Or  they  are  understood  as  the 
history  of  the  spiritual  needs  and  movements  of 
different  periods,  which  now  approach  and  now 
recede  from  Shakespeare,  causing  either  almost 
complete  forgetfulness  of  his  poetry,  or  caus- 
ing it  to  be  felt  and  loved.     In  this  case  too,  it 
is  the  history,  not  of  Shakespeare,  but  of  the 
culture  and  the  mode  of  feeling  of  other  times 
than  his.     Or  they  are  understood  in  a  third 
sense,  as  the  history  of  the  literary  and  artistic 
works,    in    which    the    so-called    influence    of 
Shakespeare  is  more  or  less  discernible;  and 
since  this  influence  would  be  without  interest, 
if  it  produced  nothing  but  mere  mechanical 
copies,  and  on  the  contrary  has  interest  only  be- 
cause we  see  it  transformed  in  an  original  man- 
ner by  new  poets  and  artists,  it  is  the  history  of 
the  new  poets  and  artists  and  no  longer  that  of 
Shakespeare. 


330 


OURSELVES 


OURSELVES 


331 


li 


11 


As  regards  the  last  statement,  it  will  not  be 
out  of  place  to  remark  that  the  accounts  which 
have  been  given  of  the  representations  of  his 
plays  are  altogether  foreign  to  Shakespeare; 
because  theatrical  representations  are  not,  as  is 
believed,  "  interpretations,"  but  variations, 
that  is  to  say  **  creations  of  new  works  of  art," 
by  means  of  the  actors,  who  always  bring  to 
them  their  own  particular  manner  of  feeling. 
There  is  never  a  tertium  comparationis,  in  the 
sense  of  a  presumably  authentic  and  objective 
interpretation,  and  here  the  same  criterion  ap- 
plies as  to  music  and  painting  suggested  by 
plays,  which  are  music  and  painting,  and  not 
those  plays.  Giuseppe  Verdi,  who  for  his  part 
composed  an  Othello,  wrote  to  the  painter 
Morelli,  who  had  conceived  a  painting  of  lago 
(in  a  letter  of  188 1,  recently  published)  :  "  You 
want  a  slight  figure,  with  little  muscular  devel- 
opment, and  if  I  have  understood  you  rightly, 
one  of  the  cunning,  malignant  sort  .  .  .  But 
if  were  I  an  actor  and  wished  to  represent  lago, 
I  should  prefer  a  lean,  meagre  figure,  with  thin 
lips,  and  small  eyes  close  to  the  nose,  like  a 
monkey's,  a  high  retreating  forehead,  with  a 
deal  of  development  at  the  back  of  the  head; 
absent  and  nonchalant  in  manner,  indifferent  to 


everything,     incredulous,     sneering,     speaking 
good  and  evil  lightly,  with  an  air  of  thinking 
about  something  quite  different  from  what  he 
says  ..."     They  might  have  entered  into  a 
long  discussion  as  to  the  two  different  interpre- 
tations, had  not  Verdi,  with  his  accustomed 
good    sense,     hastened    to     conclude :     "  But 
whether-  lago  be  small  or  big,  whether  Othello 
be  Venetian  or  Turk,  execute  them  as  you  con- 
ceive them:  the  result  will  always  be  good. 
But  remember  not  to  think  too  much  about  it.'' 
The  insurmountable  difference  that  exists  be- 
tween the  most  studiously  poetic  theatrical  rep- 
resentation and  the  original  poetry  of  Shake- 
speare, is  the  true  reason  why,  contrary  to  the 
general  belief  in  Shakespeare's  eminent  "  theat- 
ricality,"  Goethe  considered  that  "  he  was  not 
a  poet  of  the  theatre  and  did  not  think  of  the 
stage,  which  is  too  narrow  for  so  vast  a  soul, 
that  the  visible  world  is  too  narrow  for  it." 
Coleridge  too  held  that  the  plays  were  not  in- 
tended for  acting,   but  to  be  read  and  con- 
templated  as  poems,  and  added  sometimes  to 
say    laughingly,    that    an    act    of    Parliament 
should  be  passed  to  prohibit  the  representation 
of  Shakespeare  on  the  stage. 

Certainly,  Lear  and  Othello,  Macbeth  and 


*f 


332 


OURSELVES 


OURSELVES 


333 


I'll 


I? 
if 


Hamlet,  Cordelia  and  Desdemona  are  part  of 
our  souls,  and  so  they  will  be  in  the  future, 
more  or  less  active,  like  every  part  of  our  souls, 
of  our  experiences,  of  our  memories.  Some- 
times they  seem  inert  and  almost  obliterated, 
yet  they  live  and  affect  us;  at  others  they  re- 
vive and  reawaken,  linking  themselves  to  our 
greatest  and  nearest  spiritual  interests.  This 
latter  was  notably  the  case  in  the  epoch  that 
extends  from  the  "  period  of  genius  "  at  the 
end  of  romanticism,  from  the  criticism  of  Kant 
to  the  exhaustion  of  the  Hegelian  school.  At 
that  time,  poets  created  Werther  and  Faust,  as 
though  they  were  the  brothers  of  Hamlet, 
Charlotte  and  Margaret  and  Hermengarde,  as 
though  sisters  of  the  Shakespearean  heroines, 
and  philosophers  constructed  systems,  which 
seemed  to  frame  the  scattered  thoughts  of 
Shakespeare,  reducing  his  differences  to  logi- 
cal terms,  and  crowning  them  with  the  conclu- 
sion that  he  either  did  not  seek  or  did  not  find. 
At  that  time  persisted  even  the  illusion  that  the 
spirit  of  Shakespeare  had  transferred  itself 
from  the  Elizabethan  world  to  the  new  world 
of  Europe,  was  poetising  and  philosophising 
with  the  mouths  of  the  new  men  and  directing 
their  sentiments  and  actions. 


Perhaps  after  that  period,   love  of  Shake- 
speare, if  not  altogether  extinguished,  greatly 
declined.     The  colossal  mass  of  work  of  every 
sort  devoted  to  Shakespeare,  cannot  be  brought 
up  against  this  judgment,  for  this  mass,  in  great 
part  due  to   German,  English  and  American 
philologists,    proves    rather    the    sedulity    of 
modern  philology,  than  a  profound  spiritual  im- 
pulse.    This   was    more    lively,    when    Shake- 
speare was  far  less  investigated,  rummaged  and 
hashed  up,  and  was  read  in  editions  far  less 
critically  correct.     How  could  he  be  truly  loved 
and  really  felt  in  an  age  which  buried  dialectic 
and  idealism  beneath  naturalism  and  positiv- 
ism,  for  the  former  of  which  he  stood  and 
which  he  represented  in  his  own  way?     In  this 
age,   the   consciousness  of  the  distinction  be- 
tween  liberty  and  passion,  good  and  evil,  nobil- 
ity  and  vileness,   fineness   and   sensuality,  be- 
tween the  lofty  and  the  base  in  man,  became 
obscured;  everything  was  conceived  as  differ- 
ing in  quantity,  but  identical  in  substance,  and 
was  placed  in  a  deterministic  relation  with  the 
external  world.     In  such  an  atmosphere  artis- 
tic work  became  blind,  diseased,  gloomy,  in- 
stinctive; struggling  for  expression  amid  the 
torment  of  sick  senses,  no  longer  amid  pas- 


334 


OURSELVES 


ii 

I 


sionate,  moral  struggles  of  the  soul;  confused 
writers,  half  pedantic,  half  neurasthenic,  were 
taken  for  and  believed  themselves  to  be,  the 
heirs  of  Shakespeare.  Even  when  one  reads 
some  of  the  most  highly  praised  pages  of  the 
critics  of  the  day  upon  Shakespeare,  so  abound- 
ing in  exquisite  refinements,  a  sort  of  repug- 
nance comes  over  one,  as  though  a  warning 
that  this  is  not  the  genuine  Shakespeare.  He 
was  less  subtle,  but  more  profound,  less  in- 
volved, but  more  complex  and  more  great  than 

they. 

This  is  not  a  lamentation  directed  against 
the  age,  which  is  perhaps  now  drawing  to  a 
close  and  perhaps  has  no  desire  to  do  so,  and 
will  continue  to  develop  its  own  character  for 
a  greater  or  lesser  period.  It  is  simply  an  ob- 
servation of  fact,  which  belongs  to  that  history, 
which  is  not  the  history  of  William  Shake- 
speare. He  continues  to  live  his  own  history, 
in  those  spirits  alone,  who  are  perpetually  mak- 
ing anew  that  history  which  was  truly  his,  as 
they  read  him  with  an  ingenuous  mind  and  a 
heart  that  shares  in  his  poetry. 


PART  III 
PIERRE  CORNEILLE 


It 


^    CHAPTER  XIII 
CRITICISM  OF  THE  CRITICISM 

There  is  no  longer  any  necessity  for  a  criti- 
cism of  Corneille's  tragedies  in  a  negative 
sense,  for  it  is  already  to  be  found  in  several 
works.  Further,  if  there  exists  a  poet,  who. 
stands  outside  the  taste  and  the  preoccupations 
of  our  day  (at  least  in  France) ,  it  is  Corneille. 
The  greater  number  of  lovers  of  poetry  and 
art  confess  without  reserve  that  they  cannot 
endure  his  tragedies,  which  "  have  nothing  to 
say  to  them."  The  fortune  of  Corneille  has 
declined  more  and  more  with  the  growth  of 
the  fame  of  Shakespeare,  which  has  been  cor- 
relative to  the  formation  and  the  growth  of 
modern  aesthetic  and  criticism;  and  if  the  fame 
of  Shakespeare  seemed  strange  and  repugnant 
to  classicistic  elegance,  the  same  fate  has  be- 
fallen the  French  dramatist,  as  the  result  of 
Shakespeareanism  in  relation  to  the  apprecia- 
tion of  art  which  has  now  penetrated  every- 
where.    Corneille  once  represented  '*  la  pro- 

337 


338      CRITICISM    OF   CRITICISM 


CRITICISM    OF   CRITICISM      339 


fondeur  du  jugement "  as  opposed  to  "  les  ir- 
regularites  sauvages  et  capricieuses  **  of  the 
Englishman,  decorum  against  the  lack  of  it, 
calm  diffused  light  against  shadows  pierced  at 
rare  intervals  with  an  occasional  flash.  Less- 
ing  hnd  selected  for  examination  and  theme  the 
Rodogune,  which  he  held  to  be  a  work,  not  of 
poetical  genius,  but  of  an  ingenious  intellect, 
because  genius  loves  simplicity,  and  Corneille, 
after  the  manner  of  the  ingenious,  loved  com- 
plications. Schiller,  when  he  had  read  the 
most  highly  praised  works  of  Corneille,  ex- 
pressed his  astonishment  at  the  fame  which  had 
accrued  to  an  author  of  so  poor  an  inventive 
faculty,  so  meagre  and  so  dry  in  his  treatment 
of  character,  so  lacking  in  passion,  so  weak  and 
rigid  in  the  development  of  action,  and  almost 
altogether  deprived  of  interest.  William  Schle- 
gel  noted  in  him,  in  place  of  poetry,  "  tragic 
epigrams  '*  and  "  airs  of  parade,"  pomp  with- 
out grandeur  —  he  found  him  cold  in  the  love 
scenes  —  his  love  was  not  as  a  rule  love,  but, 
in  the  words  of  the  hero  Sertorius,  a  well  cal- 
culated aimer  par  politique  —  intricate  and 
Machiavellian  and  at  the  same  time  ingenuous 
and  puerile  in  the  representation  of  politics. 
He  defined  the  greater  part  of  the  tragedies  as 


nothing  but  treatises  on  the  reason  of  State 
in  the  form  of  discussions,  conducted  rather 
in  the  manner  of  a  chess-player  than  of  a  poet. 
Even  the  most  temperate  De  Sanctis  could  not 
succeed  in  enjoying  this  writer,  as  is  to  be  gath- 
ered from  his  lectures  upon  dramatic  literature 
delivered  in  1847.  He  found  that  he  does  not 
render  the  fullness  of  life,  but  only  the  extreme 
points  of  the  passions  in  collision,  and  that  he 
prefers  eloquence  to  the  development  of  tra- 
gedy, so  that  he  often  unconsciously  turns  tra- 
gedy into  comedy.  The  confrontation  of  Cor- 
neille's  Cid  with  its  Spanish  original.  Las  moc- 
edades  of  Guillen  de  Castro,  has  however 
prevailed  above  all  others  as  the  text  upon 
which  to  base  arguments  against  the  French 
dramaturge.  Shack  declared  that  the  work  of 
Corneille  was  altogether  negative,  that  he  re- 
duced and  reelaborated  his  original,  losing  the 
poetical  soul  of  the  Spanish  poet  in  the  process 
and  destroying  the  alternate  and  spontaneous 
expression  of  tenderness  and  of  violent  pas- 
sion. He  found  that  he  substituted  oratorical 
adornments  and  a  swollen  phraseology  for  the 
pure  language  of  sentiment,  coquetry  for  the 
struggle  of  the  affections,  to  which  it  is  di- 
rectly opposed,  and  a  boastful  charlatan  for  the 


340      CRITICISM    OF   CRITICISM 

heroic  figure  of  Rodrigo.  Klein,  passing  from 
severe  criticism  into  open  satire,  described 
the  Cid  to  be  a  **  commentary  in  Alexandrines  " 
upon  the  poem  of  the  Mocedades,  comparing 
the  Spanish  Jimena  to  a  fresh  drop  of  dew  upon 
"  a  flower  that  has  hardly  bloomed,"  and  the 
French  Chimene  on  the  contrary  to  a  "  muddy 
drop,  which  presents  a  tumultuous  battle  of  in- 
fusorians  to  the  light  of  the  sun  '* :  the  **  in- 
fusorians  "  would  represent  the  antithesis  to 
the  "  Alexandrine  tears  ''  {Alexandrinerthrd- 
nen),  which  she  pours  forth. 

But  these  negative  judgments  were  not  re- 
stricted altogether  and  at  first  to  foreigners 
and  romantics.  In  the  eighteenth  century,  Vol- 
taire (who  for  that  matter  sometimes  lifts  his 
eyes  to  the  dangerous  criterion  of  Shakespeare 
in  his  notes  upon  Corneille)  did  not  refrain 
from  criticising  his  illustrious  predecessor  for 
the  frequent  froideur  observable  in  his  dra- 
matic work,  as  well  as  for  his  constant  habit  of 
speaking  himself  as  the  author  and  not  allow- 
ing his  personages  to  speak,  for  his  substitution 
of  reflections  for  immediate  expressions,  and 
for  the  artifices,  the  conventions  and  the  pad- 
ding, in  which  he  abounds.  Vauvenargues 
showed  himself  irreconcilable  (Racine  was  his 


CRITICISM    OF   CRITICISM     341 

ideal).     He   too  blamed  the  heroes  of  Cor- 
neille for  uttering  great  things  and  not  inspir- 
ing them,  for  talking,  and  always  talking  too 
much,  with  the  object  of  making  themselves 
known  —  whereas  great  men  are  rather  char- 
acterised by  the  things  they  do  not  say  than 
those  they  do  say  —  and  in  general  for  ostenta- 
tion, which  takes  the  place  of  loftiness,  and  for 
declamation,  which  he  substitutes  for  true  elo- 
quence.    Gaillard  allowed  the  influence  of  the 
generally  unfavorable  verdict  or  the  verdict  full 
of  retractations  and  cautions  in  respect  of  its 
theme,  to  colour  the  eulogy  which  he  composed 
in  1768.     It  used  to  be  said  of  Corneille  that 
he    aimed    rather    at    "  admiration "    than    at 
"  emotion,"    and    that    he   was   in    fact    "  not 
tragic.'*     This  insult  (declared  Gaillard)  was 
spoken,  but  not  written  down,   "  because  the 
pen  is  always  wiser  than   the  tongue."     But 
the  accusation  of  **  coldness  "  had  made  itself 
heard  on  the  lips  of  Corneille's  contemporaries 
in  the  second  half  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
particularly  when  the  tragedies  of  Racine,  with 
their  very  different  message  to  the  heart,  had 
appeared  to  afford  a  contrast. 

The  defenders  of  Corneille  have  often  yield- 
ed to  the  temptation  of  accepting  Shakespeare's 


342     CRITICISM   OF   CRITICISM 

dramas  or  at  least  the  tragedies  of  Racine  as  a 
standard  of  comparison  and  a  reply  to  criti- 
cism. They  have  attempted  to  prove  that 
Corneille  should  be  read,  judged  and  inter- 
preted in  the  spirit  of  those  poets.  They  have 
claimed  to  discover  in  Corneille  just  that  which 
their  adversaries  failed  to  discover  and  of 
which  they  denied  the  existence:  this  they  call 
truth,  reality  and  life,  meaning  thereby,  pas- 
sion and  imagination.  Thus  we  find  Sainte- 
Beuve  lamenting  that  not  only  foreigners,  but 
France  herself,  had  not  remarked  and  had  not 
gloried  in  the  possession  of  Pauline  (in  Poly- 
eucte)y  one  of  the  divine  poetical  figures,  which 
are  to  be  placed  in  the  brief  list  containing  the 
Antigones,  the  Didos,  the  Francescas  da  Rim- 
ini, the  Desdemonas,  the  Ophelias.  More , 
recently  others  have  elevated  the  Cleopatra  (of 
Rodogune)  to  the  level  of  Lady  Macbeth,  and 
the  Cid,  on  account  of  the  youthful  freshness 
of  his  love-making,  to  the  rank  of  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  while  they  have  discovered  in  Andro- 
mede  nothing  less  than  that  kind  of  f eerie  poet- 
ique  **  to  which  the  English  owe  a  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream  and  the  Tempest"  They  also 
declare  that  the  Horace  is  a  tragedy  in  which 
reigns  a  sort  of  "  savage  Roman  sanctity,''  cul- 


CRITICISM    OF   CRITICISM      343 

minating  in  the  youthful  Horace,  "  intransigent 
and  fanatical,  ferociously  religious  " ;  while  his 
sister  Camilla  is  "  a  creature  of  nerves  and  flesh, 
who  has  strayed  into  a  family  of  heroes  "  and 
rises  up  in  revolt  against  that  hard  world. 
For  them  Camilla  is  an  "  invalid  of  love," 
"  one  possessed  by  passion,'*  a  "  neurotic,"  of 
an  altogether  modern  complexion.  Polyeucte 
represents  "  a  drama  of  nascent  Christianity," 
and  its  protagonist,  a  "  mystical  rebel,"  recalls 
at  once  **  Saint  Paul,  Huss,  Calvin  and  Prince 
Krapotkine,"  arousing  the  same  curiosity  as  a 
Russian  nihilist,  such  as  one  used  to  see  some 
years  ago  in  the  beershops,  with  bright  eyes, 
pale  and  fair,  the  forehead  narrow  about  the 
temples  and  of  whom  it  was  whispered  that  he 
had  killed  some  general  or  prefect  of  police  at 
Petersburg.  Severus  seems  to  them  to  be 
similar  in  some  respects  to  **  a  modern  exegete," 
who  is  writing  the  history  of  the  origin  of 
Christianity.  There  exists  no  play  "  which 
penetrates  more  profoundly  into  the  human 
soul  or  opens  a  wider  perspective  of  untrodden 
paths."  Cinna  represents  in  the  tragedy  of 
Augustus  another  neurotic  after  the  modern 
manner.  Augustus,  ambitious  and  without 
scruples,  has  attained  to  the  summit  of  his  de- 


I 


344     CRITICISM   OF   CRITICISM 

sires  and  is  weary  and  tired  of  power.  He 
negates  the  man  who  ordered  the  proscriptions 
that  is  in  himself  and  his  generosity  is  due  al- 
most to  satiety  for  too  easy  triumphs  and 
vengeances.  Attila,  in  the  tragedy  of  that 
name,  springs  out  before  us  as  **  a  monster  of 
pride,  cruel,  emphatic  and  subtle,  conscious  of 
being  the  instrument  of  a  mysterious  power,  an 
ogre  with  a  mission  " :  this  ''  stupendous  "  con- 
ception  is  worthy  to  stand  side  by  side  with  the 
gigantic  figures  of  the  Legende  des  Siecles. 

These  are  all  fantastic  embroideries,  meta- 
phors, easel  pictures,  which  sometimes  do 
honour  to  the  artistic  capacity  of  the  eulogists, 
but  have  no  connexion  whatever  with  the  direct 
impression  of  Corneille's  tragedies.  Spinoza 
would  have  said  that  they  have  as  much  connex- 
ion with  them  as  the  dog  of  zoology  with 
the  dog-star.  An  obvious  instance  of  this 
is  the  strange  comparison  of  the  character 
Poluseucty  with  the  "  Russian  nihilist  "—  but 
it  is  little  less  evident  in  the  other  instances, 
because  it  is  altogether  arbitrary  to  interpret 
the  Augustus  of  the  Cinna  as  though  he  were 
a  Shakespearean  Richard  II  or  Henry  IV 
and  to  attribute  to  him  the  psychology  of  what 
Nietzsche  describes  as  the  **  generous  man.'' 


CRITICISM    OF   CRITICISM     345 


Fancy  for  fancy,  as  well  admit  Napoleon's  com- 
ment. He  declared  himself  persuaded  that 
Augustus  was  certainly  not  changed  in  a  mo- 
ment into  a  ''  prince  debonnaire/*  into  a  poor 
prince  exercising  ''  une  si  pauvre  petite  vertu  " 
as  clemency,  and  that  if  he  holds  out  to  Cinna 
the  right  hand  of  friendship,  he  only  does  this 
to  deceive  him  and  in  order  to  revenge  himself 
more  completely  and  more  usefully  at  the 
propitious  moment.  It  Is  an  amusement  like 
another  to  take  up  the  personages  of  a  play  or 
of  a  story  and  refashion  them  in  our  own  way 
by  the  free  use  of  the  fancy,  or  to  weave  a  new 
mode  of  feeling  out  of  the  facts  concerning 
certain  cases  and  characters.  Camilla  can  thus 
be  quite  well  transformed  even  into  a  nympho- 
maniac; but  unfortunately  criticism  insinuates 
itself  into  the  folds  of  fancy  and  causes  the 
fancier  himself  (Lemaitre)  to  note  that 
Camilla  sacrifices  her  love  to  her  duty  "  delib- 
erement*'  that  she  certainly  resembles  a  char- 
acter of  Racine,  but ''  non  certes  par  la  langue** 
and  that  she  would  show  us  what  she  really  is 
"  si  elle  parlait  un  langage  moins  rude  at  moins 
compact,*'  As  though  the  speech  and  the  in- 
flection were  an  accident  and  not  the  whole  of  a 
poetic  creation,  the  beating  of  its  heart  I     The 


1 


346      CRITICISM    OF  CRITICISM 


f 
I 


demoniacal,  the  neurotic  Camilla,   it   is  true, 
speaks  in  this  way: 

**  II  vient,  preparons-nous  a  montrer  constamment 
Ce  que  doit  une  amante  a  la  mort  d*un  amant/' 

Here  Voltaire's  unconquerable  good  sense 
could  not  refrain  from  remarking:  *' *  Prepa* 
rons-nous  *  adds  to  the  defect.  We  see  a 
woman  who  is  thinking  how  she  can  demon- 
strate her  affliction  and  may  be  said  to  be  re- 
hearsing her  lesson  of  grief." 

The  same  fantastic  and  anticritical  method 
of  comparison  has  been  adopted  with  De  Cas- 
tro's play,  with  the  object  of  obtaining  a  con- 
trary result:  this  comparison,  whenever  it  is 
conducted  with  the  criterion  of  realistic  art,  or 
of  art  full  of  passion,  cannot  but  result  in  a 
condemnation  of  Corneille's  reelaboration  of 
the  theme.  This  has  been  frankly  admitted 
by  more  than  one  French  critic  (Fauriel  for  ex- 
ample), who  contrived  to  loosen  somewhat  the 
chains  of  national  preconceptions  and  tradi- 
tional admirations.  •  Indeed  it  was  already  im- 
plied in  the  celebrated  judgment  of  the  Acad- 
emy, which  is  not  the  less  just  and  acute  for 
having  been  delivered  by  an  academy  and  writ- 
ten by  a  Chapelain.     Guillen  de  Castro's  play, 


CRITICISM    OF   CRITICISM      347 

which  is  epical  and  popular  in  tone,  celebrates 
the  youthful  hero  Rodrigo,  the  future  Cid, 
strong,  faithful  and  pious,  admired  by  all, 
and  looked  upon  with  love  by  princesses.  An 
anecdote  is  recounted,  with  the  object  of  cel- 
ebrating him,  describing  how  he  was  obliged 
to  challenge  and  to  slay  the  father  of  the 
maiden  he  loved.  Bound  to  the  same  degree 
as  himself  by  the  laws  of  chivalry,  she  is  held 
to  be  obliged  to  provide  for  the  vendetta  re- 
quired by  the  death  of  her  father.  She  per- 
forms her  duty  without  hatred  and  solely  as  a 
legal  enemy,  an  "  ennemie  legitime  "  (to  employ 
a  phrase  of  the  same  Corneille  in  the  Horace), 
She  does  not  cease  to  love,  nor  does  she  feel 
any  shame  in  loving.  Finally,  his  prowess  and 
the  favour  of  heaven,  which  he  deserves  and 
which  ever  accompanies  him,  obtain  for  Rod- 
rigo the  legal  conquest  of  his  loving  beloved, 
who  is  also  his  enemy  for  honour's  sake.  De 
Castro's  play  is  limpid,  lively,  full  of  happen- 
ings. Corneille  both  simplifies  and  complicates 
it,  reducing  it  to  series  of  casuistical  discussions, 
vivified  here  and  there  with  echoes  of  the  pas- 
sionate original,  softened  with  moments  of 
abandonment,  as  in  the  vigorous  scene  of  the 
challenge,  which  is  an  echo  of  the  Spanish  play, 


4 


348      CRITICISM    OF   CRITICISM 


I 


or  in  the  tender  sigh  of  the  duet,  '^  Rodrigue,  qui 
Veut  cru?  .  .  .  Chimene,  qui  Veut  dit?  .  .  ." 
which  is  also  in  De  Castro.  After  this,  it  ean 
be  asserted  that  Corneille  **  has  made  a  human 
drama,  a  drama  of  universal  human  appeal,  out 
of  an  exclusively  Spanish  drama  *' ;  it  will  also 
be  declared  that  "  the  most  beautiful  words  of 
the  French  language  find  themselves  always  at 
the  point  of  the  pen,  when  one  is  writing  about 
the  Cid;  duty,  love,  honour,  the  family,  one's 
native  land,''  because  **  everything  there  is  gen- 
erous, affectionate,  ingenuous,  and  there  never 
has  been  breathed  a  livelier  or  a  purer  air  upon 
the  stage,  the  air  of  lofty  altitudes  of  the  soul." 
But  this  is  verbiage.  It  is  also  possible  to  revel 
in  the  description  of  **  the  fair  cavalier,  pro- 
tected of  God  and  adored  by  the  ladies,  who 
carries  his  country  about  with  him  wherever  he 
goes,  and  along  with  it  everybody's  heart;  in 
the  beautiful  maiden  with  the  long  black  veil, 
so  strong  and  yet  so  weak,  so  courageous  and 
so  tender ;  in  the  grand  old  man,  so  majestic  and 
yet  so  familiar,  the  signor  so  rude  and  so  hoary, 
yet  with  a  soul  as  straight  and  as  pure  as  a 
lilv,  in  whom  dwells  the  ancient  code  of  honour 
and  all  the  glory  of  times  past;  in  the  king,  so 
good-natured  and  ingenuous,  yet  so  clever,  like 


CRITICISM    OF   CRITICISM      349 

the  good  king  one  finds  in  fairy  stories ;  In  the 
gentle  little  infanta,  with  her  precious  solilo- 
quies, so  full  of  gongorism  and  knightly  ro- 
mances .  .  .";  but  as  we  have  previously  ob- 
served, this  will  be  merely  drawing  fancy  pic- 
tures.    It  suffices  to  read  the  Cidj  to  see  that 
it  contains  nothing  of  this  and  nothing  of  this 
is  to  be  found  among  the  tragedies  of  Corneille. 
The  vanity  of  such  criticisms,  which  attempt 
to  alter   Corneille  by  presenting  him  as  that 
which  he  is  not  and  does  not  wish  to  be,  a  poet 
of  immediate  passions,  would  at  once  be  ap- 
parent, were  it  to  be  realised  that  no  such  at- 
tempts are  made  in  the  case  of  Racine,  whose 
passionate  soul  makes  its  presence  at  once  felt 
through  literary  and  theatrical  conventions,  in 
the  affection  which  he  experiences  for  the  sweet, 
for  what  is  tremendous  and  mysterious  with  re- 
ligious   emotion,   which   palpitates   in   Andro- 
mache, in  Phoedra,  in  Iphigenia  and  Eriphylis 
In  Joad  and  in  Attila.     But  it  confutes  itself  by 
becoming  modified,  sometimes  among  the  very 
critics  whom  we  have  been  citing,  into  the  thesis 
that  Corneille  is  the  poet  of  the  **  reason,"  or  of 
"  the  rational  will."     And  we  say  modified,  be- 
cause  the  reason  or  the  rational  will  is  in  poetry 
itself  a  passion,  and  he  would  be  correctly  de- 


!• 


350     CRITICISM   OF   CRITICISM 

scribed  as  a  poet  of  that  kind  of  inspiration, 
who  should  accentuate  the  rational-volitional 
moment  in  the  representation  of  the  passions, 
by  creating  types  of  wise  and  active  men,  such 
as  are  to  be  found  in  the  epic,  in  many  dramatic 
masterpieces,  in  high  romance  and  elsewhere. 
But  not  even  this  exists  in  Corneille,  so  much 
so  that  the  very  persons  who  maintain  the 
thesis,  remark  that  he  isolates  a  principle  and 
a  force,  the  reason  and  the  will,  and  seeks  out 
how  the  one  makes  the  other  triumph.  To 
this,  they  declare,  we  must  attribute  the  **  char- 
acter of  stiffness  "  proper  to  the  heroes  of  Cor- 
neille, who  are  necessarily  bound  to  lack  "  the 
seductive  flexibility,  the  languors,  the  perturba- 
tions, which  are  to  be  observed  in  those  moved 
by  sentiment.*'  Now  this  is  not  permissible 
in  art,  because  art,  in  portraying  a  passion,  even 
if  it  be  that  of  inflexible  rationality  and  inflexi- 
ble will  and  duty,  never  *'  isolates  ''  it,  in  the 
fashion  of  an  analyst  in  a  laboratory,  or  a  phy- 
sicist, but  seizes  it  in  its  becoming,  and  so  to- 
gether with  all  the  other  passions,  and  together 
with  the  *'  languors "  and  **  disturbances." 
Thus  Corneille,  described  as  they  describe  him 
by  isolating  the  reason  and  the  will,  would  be 
a  slayer  of  life,  and  so  of  the  will  and  the  rea- 


CRITICISM    OF   CRITICISM     351 

son  themselves.  And  when  he  is  blamed  for 
having  given  so  small  and  so  unhappy  a  place  to 
love,  **  to  the  act  by  which  the  race  perpetuates 
itself,  to  the  relations  of  the  sexes  and  to  all 
the  sentiments  that  arise  from  them,  and  which, 
by  the  nature  of  things  form  an  essential  part 
of  the  life  of  the  human  race,"  it  is  not  observed 
that  beneath  this  reproof,  which  is  somewhat 
physiological  and  lubricious  and  lacks  serious- 
ness of  statement,  there  is  concealed  the  yet 
more  serious  and  more  general  reproof  that 
Corneille  suffocates  and  suppresses  the  quiver 
of  life.  La  Bruyere  was  probably  among  the 
first  to  give  currency  to  the  saying,  which 
has  been  repeated,  that  Corneille  depicts  men 
not  "  as  they  are,"  but  **  as  they  ought  to  be," 
and  leads  to  a  like  conclusion,  though  expressed 
in  an  euphemistic  form;  because  poetry  in 
truth  knows  nothing  of  being  or  of  having  to 
be,  and  its  existence  is  a  having  to  be,  its  having 
to  be  a  being. 

This  critical  position,  which  desires  to  ex- 
plain and  to  justify  Corneille  as  poet  of  the 
reason  and  of  the  rational  will  (although,  as 
we  shall  see  further  on,  it  contains  some  truth), 
is  indeed  equivocal,  because  it  seems  to  assert 
on  the  one  hand  that  he  possesses  a  particular 


m 


352     CRITICISM   OF   CRITICISM 


• 


form  of  passion,  and  on  the  other  takes  it  away 
from  him  with  its  "  isolation,"  its  "  having  to 
be,'*  and  with  its  assertion  that  his  personages 
**  surpass  nature,'*  with  its  boasting  of  his  **  Ro- 
mans being  more  Roman  than  Romans,"  his 
"  Greeks  more  Greek  than  Greeks  "  and  the 
like,  that  is  to  say,  by  making  of  him  an  exag- 
gerator  of  types  and  of  abstractions,  the  op- 
posite of  a  poet.  The  passage,  then,  is  easy 
from  this  position  to  its  last  thesis  or  modifica- 
tion, by  means  of  which  Corneille  is  exalted  as 
an  eminent  representative  of  a  special  sort  of 
poetry,  "  rationalistic  poetry,"  which  is  held  to 
coincide  with  poetry  that  is  especially  "  French." 
The  theory  here  implied  is  to  be  found  both 
among  the  French  and  those  who  are  not 
French,  among  classicists  and  romantics,  some- 
times being  looked  upon  among  both  as  a  merit, 
that  is  to  say,  it  is  recognised  by  them  that  this 
sort  of  poetry  is  legitimate.  In  the  course  of 
his  proof  that  French  rationalistic  tragedy  ex- 
cludes the  lyrical  element  and  demands  the  in- 
trigue of  action  and  the  eloquence  of  the  pas- 
sions, Frederick  Schlegel  indicated  "  the  splen- 
did side  of  French  tragedy,  where  it  evinces 
lofty  and  incomparable  power,  fully  responding 
to  the  spirit  and  character  of  a  nation,  in  which 


CRITICISM   OF   CRITICISM     353 

eloquence  occupies  a  dominant  position,  even  in 
private  life."     A  contemporary  writer  on  art, 
Gundolf,  blames  his  German  conationals  for  the 
prejudices  in  which  they  are  enmeshed,  and  for 
their  lack  of  understanding  of  the  great  ration- 
alistic poetry  of  France,  so  logical,  so  uniform, 
so  ordered  and  subordinated,  so  regular  and  so 
easily  to  be  understood.     It  is  the  natural  and 
spontaneous  expression  of  the  French  character, 
in  the  same  way  as  is  the  monarchy  of  Louis 
XIV,  differing  thereby  from  the  narrow  conven- 
tion or  imitation,  which  it  became  In  the  hands 
of  Gottsched  and  others  of  Gallic  tendencies,  in 
other  countries.     Sainte-Beuve,  alluding  In  par- 
ticular  to    Corneille,    argued   that   In   French 
tragedy  **  things  are  not  seen  too  realistically 
or  over-coloured,  since  attention  Is  chiefly  be- 
stowed   upon    the    saying    of    Descartes:  — I 
think,  therefore  I  am:  I  think,  therefore  I  feel; 

and  everything  there  happens  in  or  is  led 

back  to  the  bosom  of  the  Interior  substance," 
in  the  **  state  of  pure  sentiment,  of  reasoned 
and  dialogued  analysis,"  In  a  sphere  "  no  longer 
of  sentiment,  but  of  understanding,  clear,  ex- 
tended,  without  mists  and  without  clouds." 
Another  student  of  Corneille  opposes  the  dif- 
ferent  and  equally  admissible   system  of  the 


*l 


354     CRITICISM   OF   CRITICISM 

French  tragedian,  "  a  constructor  and  as  it  were 
an  engineer  of  action,"  to  that  of  Shakespeare, 
portrayer  of  the  soul  and  of  life.     Thus,  while 
all  the  most  famous  plays  of  Shakespeare  are 
drama,  but  lyrical  drama,  **  hardly  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  and  popular  plays  of  Corneille 
is  essentially  lyrical."     What  are  we  to  think 
of    "  rationalistic "    or    "  intellectualistic,"    or 
**  logical  "  or  "  non-lyrical  "  poetry?     Nothing 
but  this :  that  it  does  not  exist     And  of  French 
poetry?     The  same:  that  it  does  not  exist;  be- 
cause what  is   poetry  in   France   is  naturally 
neither  intellectualistic  nor  essentially  French, 
but  purely  and  simply  poetry,  like  all  other 
poetry  that  has  grown  in  this  earthly  flower- 
bed.    And  if  the  old-fashioned  romanticism, 
which  sanctifies  and  gives  substance  to  national- 
ity and  demands  of  art,   of  thought  and  of 
everything  else,  that  it  should  first  be  mitional, 
is  reappearing  among  French  writers  in  the  dis- 
guise of  anti-romanticism   and  neo-classicism, 
this  is  but  a  proof  the  more  of  the  spiritual  dul- 
ness  and  mental  confusion  of  those  nationalists, 
who  embrace  their  presumed  adversary. 

The  only  reality  that  could  be  concealed  in 
**  rationalistic  poetry,"  for  which  Corneille  is 
praised,  as  shown  above,  would  be  one  of  the 


CRITICISM    OF   CRITICISM      355 

categories  in  old-fashioned  books  of  literary  in- 
struction, known  as  "  didactic  poetry,"  which 
was  not  too  well  spoken  of,  even  there.     Cor- 
neille is  admired  from  this  point  of  view,  among 
other  things,  for  his  famous  political  disserta- 
tions in  the  Cinna  and  in  the  Sertorius,  where 
Voltaire  considers  that  he  is  deserving  of  great 
praise   for  "having  expressed  very  beautiful 
thoughts  in  correct  and  harmonious  verse."     In 
this  connexion  are  quoted  the  remarks  of  the 
Marechal  de  Grammont  about  the  Othon,  that 
"  it  should  have  been  the  breviary  of  kings,"  or 
of  Louvois,  "  an  audience  of  ministers  of  state 
would  be  desirable  for  the  judgment  of  such  a 
work."     It  is  indeed  only  in  "  didactic  poetry," 
which  is  versified  prose,  that  we  find  ''  thoughts  " 
that  are  afterwards  "  versified."     The  method 
employed  by  another  man  of  letters  would  also 
make   of  the   tragedies   of    Corneille   masked 
didactib  poetry.     He  is  an  unconscious  manipu- 
lator of  thesis,  antithesis  and  synthesis,  in  the 
manner  of  Hegel,  and  describes  it  as  "  the  al- 
liance of  the  individual  with  the  species,  of  the 
particular  with  the  general,"  which  were  sepa- 
rate in  the  medieval  ''  farces  "  and  **  morali- 
ties," the  former  being  all  compact  of  individ- 
uals and  actions,   the  latter  of  ideas,  which 


356      CRITICISM    OF    CRITICISM 


^ 


L)  i< 


Corneille  was  able  to  unite,  being  one  of  those 
great  masters  who  proceed  from  the  general 
to  the  particular  and  vivify  the  abstractions  of 
thought  with  the  power  of  the  imagination. 

The  justification  of  the  tragedies  of  Cor- 
neille, as  based  upon  the  foundations  of  French 
society  and  history  in  the  time  of  Corneille,  is 
certainly  more  solid  than  that  which  explains 
them  as  based  upon  a  mystical  French  "  char- 
acter," or  "  race,"  or  "  nation."  Do  conven- 
tions and  etiquette  govern  and  embarrass  the 
development  of  dialogue  and  action  in  every 
part  of  those  tragedies?  But  such  was  life  at 
court,  or  life  modelled  upon  life  at  court,  in 
those  days.  Do  the  characters  rather  reason 
about  their  sentiments  than  express  them?  But 
such  was  the  custom  of  well-bred  men  of  that 
day.  And  do  they  always  discuss  matters  ac- 
cording to  all  the  rules  of  rhetoric  and  with 
perfect  diction?  But  to  speak  well  was  the 
boast  of  men  in  society  and  diplomatists  at  that 
time.  Do  the  women  mingle  love  and  politics, 
and  rather  make  love  for  political  reasons  than 
politics  for  love?  But  the  ladies  of  the  Fronde 
did  just  this;  indeed  Cardinal  Mazarin,  in  con- 
versation with  the  Spanish  ambassador,  gave 
vent  to  the  opinion  that  in  France  "  an  honest 


'fn 


CRITICISM    OF   CRITICISM     357 

woman  would  not  sleep  with  her  husband,  nor 
a  mistress  with  her  lover,  unless  they  had  dis- 
cussed affairs  of  State  with  them  during  the 
day."     And  so  discussions  continue  and  are  to 
be  found  continuing  in  Taine  and  many  others, 
without  explaining  anything,  because  they  pass 
over  the  poetry  and  the  problem  of  the  poetry, 
which  is  not,  as  Taine  held,  *'  the  expression  of 
the  genius  of  an  age  "  or  ''  the  reflection  of  a 
given  society"    (society  reflects  and  expresses 
itself   in   its   own   actions   and  customs),   but 
"  poetry,  that  is  to  say,  one  of  the  free  forces  of 
every  people,  society  and  time,  which  must  be 
interpreted  with  reasons  contained  in  itself."  ^ 
It  is  superfluous  to  add  that  the  poetry  is  lost 
sight  of  in  the  delight  of  finding  the  personages 
and  social  types  of  the  French  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, beyond  the  verses  and  the  ideal  concep- 
tions of  character;  for  example,  we  find  them 
declaring  their  own  affectionate  sympathy  for 
"  Christian  Theodora,"  for  this  martyr,  of  the 
dress  with  the  starched  collar  and  the  equally 
proudly   starched   sentiments,    for   this  proud 

1 "  Est-ce  que  la  critique  modernc  n'a  pas  abandannc  Tart 
pour  I'histoire?  La  valeur  intrinseque  d'un  livre  n*est  rien 
dans  I'ecole  Sainte-Beuve-Taine.  On  y  prend  tout  en  con- 
sideration, sauf  le  talent." 

(Flaubert,  Correspondence,  IV,  8x.) 


358     CRITICISM   OF  CRITICISM 


m 


$ 


martyr,  in  the  grand  style  of  Louis  XIII/'  al- 
together forgetting  the  reality  of  the  art  of 
Corneille  and  the  critical  problems  suggested 
by  the  Theodora.  This  is  certainly  very 
prettily  and  gracefully  said,  but  it  misses  the 
point. 

There  remains  to  mention  but  one  last  form 
of  defence,  which  however  is  not  a  justification 
of  the  art  of  Corneille,  but  a  eulogy  of  him  as 
an  ingenious  man,  who  deserved  well  of  culture 
and  possessed  refinement  of  manners,  particu- 
larly as  regards  theatrical  representations.  To 
him  belongs  the  "  great  merit''  (said  Voltaire 
in  concluding  his  commentary)  of  **  having 
found  France  rustic,  gross  and  ignorant,  about 
the  time  of  the  Cid,  and  of  having  changed  it 
by  teaching  it  not  only  tragedy  and  comedy, 
but  even  the  art  of  thinking.''  And  his  rival 
Racine,  in  his  praise  of  Corneille  before  the 
Academy  at  the  time  of  his  death,  had  recorded 
"  the  debt  that  French  poetry  and  the  French 
stage  owed  to  him."  He  had  found  it  disor- 
dered, irregular  and  chaotic,  and  after  having 
sought  the  right  road  for  some  time  and  striven 
against  the  bad  taste  of  his  age,  "  he  inspired  it 
with  an  extraordinary  genius  aided  by  study  of 
the  ancients,  and  exhibited  reason  {la  raison) 


i 


CRITICISM   OF   CRITICISM     359 


on  the  stage,  accompanied  with  all  the  pomp 
and  all  the  ornaments,  of  which  the  French  lan- 
guage is  capable."  All  the  historians  of 
French  literature  repeat  this,  beginning  by  bow- 
ing down  before  Corneille,  the  **  founder,"  or 
"  creator  "  of  the  French  theatre.  Such  praise 
as  this  means  little  or  nothing  in  art,  because 
non-poets,  or  poets  of  very  slender  talents,  even 
pedants,  are  capable  of  exercising  this  function 
of  being  founders  and  directors  of  the  culture 
and  the  literature  of  a  people.  An  instance  of 
this  in  Italy  was  Pietro  Bembo,  **  who  removed 
this  pure,  sweet  speech  of  ours  from  its  vulgar 
obscurity,  and  has  shown  us  by  his  example  what 
it  ought  to  be." 

He  was  not  a  poet,  yet  was  surrounded  with 
the  gratitude  and  with  the  nwst  sincere  rever- 
ence on  the  part  of  poets  of  genius,  among 
whom  was  Ariosto,  to  whom  belong  the  verses 

cited  above. 

That  other  merit  accorded  to  Corneille,  of 
having  accomplished  a  revolution,  cleared  the 
ground  and  "  raised  the  French  tragic  system 
upon  it,"  the  "  classical  system,"  is  without 
poetical  value.  We  shall  leave  it  to  others  to 
define  as  they  please,  precisely  of  what  this 
work  consisted,  the  introduction  of  the  unities 


■r 


r\ 


■ 


m 


t! 


360     CRITICISM   OF   CRITICISM 

and  of  the  rules  of  verisimilitude,  the  concep- 
tion   and  .realisation    of    tragic    psychological 
tragedy,  or  the  tragedy  of  character,  of  which 
actions  and  catastrophes  should  form  the  con- 
sequences,   the    fusing    and   harmonising   in   a 
single  type  of  sixteenth  century  tragedy,  which 
starts  from  **  the  tragic  incident,''  with  that  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  which  ends  with  it,  and 
so  on.     We  prefer  to  remark,  with  reference  to 
this  and  to  so  many  other  disputes  that  have 
taken  place  since  the  time  of  Calepio  and  Les- 
sing  onward,  and  especially  during  the  romantic 
period,  with  regard  to  the  merits  and  the  de- 
fects of  the  "  French  system,''  as  compared  with 
the  "  Greek  system  "  and  with  the  "  romantic  " 
or   **  Shakespearean,"   that   "systems"   either 
have  nothing  to  do  with  poetry,  or  are  the  ab- 
stract schemes  of  single  poems,  and  therefore 
that  such  disputes  are  and  always  have  been, 
sterile    and    vain.     Here    too    it    should    be 
mentioned  that  a  **  system  "  may  be  the  work 
of  non-poets  or  of  mediocre  poets,  as  was  the 
case  in  Italy  with  the  system  of  *'  melodrama," 
of  which  (to  employ  the  figure  of  De  Sanctis), 
Apostolo  Zeno  was  the  ''  architect  "  and  Pietro 
Metastasio  the  **  poet."     In  England  too,  the 
system  of  the  drama  was  not  fixed  by  Shake- 


CRITICISM    OF   CRITICISM     361 

speare,  but  by  his  predecessors,  small  fry  in- 
deed as  compared  with  him.  We  would  also 
observe  that  death  or  life  may  exist  in  one  and 
the  same  system,  for  indeed  a  system  is  a  prison, 
with  bolts  and  bars.  Note  in  this  respect,  that 
although  the  romantics  had  boasted  the  salva- 
tion that  lay  in  the  Shakespearean  system,  a  new 
dramatic  genius  springing  therefrom  was  vainly 
awaited.  There  appeared  only  semigeniuses 
and  a  crowd  of  strepitous  works,  not  less  cold 
and  empty  than  those  that  had  been  condemned 
in  the  opposing  **  French  system." 

We  may  therefore  conclude  that  the  argu- 
ments of  the  admirers  and  apologists  of  Cor- 
neille,  which  have  been  passed  in  review,  do  not 
embrace  the  problem,  but  leave  the  judgments 
of  negative  criticism  free  to  exercise  their  peri- 
lous potency.  They  find  in  Corneille  intel- 
lectual combinations  in  place  of  poetical  forma- 
tions, abstractions  in  place  of  what  is  concrete, 
oratory  in  place  of  lyrical  inspiration  and 
shadow  in  place  of  substance. 


f-4 


H' 


CHAPTER  XIV 


Hi 


M 


THE  IDEAL  OF  CORNEILLE 

Nevertheless,  when  all  this  has  been  said  and 
the  conclusion  drawn,  there  remains  the  general 
impression  of  the  work,  which  has  in  it  some- 
thing of  the  grandiose,  and  brings  back  to  the 
lips  the  homage  that  the  next  generations  ren- 
dered to  the  author,  when  they  called  him  "  the 
great  Corneille."  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  no  one 
has  been  deceived  as  to  the  intention  of  our  dis- 
course up  to  this  point,  which  has  been  directed 
not  against  Corneille,  but  against  his  critics, 
nor  among  them  against  those  who  have  written 
many  other  things  both  true  and  beautiful  on 
the  subject;  we  have  but  to  refer  to  the  acute 
Lemaitre  among  the  most  recent,  to  the  diligent 
and  loving  Dorchain,  and  to  the  most  solid  of 
all,  Lanson.  We  shall  avail  ourselves  of  them 
in  what  follows,  but  shall  oppose  their  par- 
ticular theories  and  presuppositions,  which  are 
misrepresentations  of  the  subject  of  their  judg- 
ments itself.     For  the  negative  criticism,  which 

362 


CORNEILLE'S    IDEAL 


363 


we  have  recapitulated,  does  not  win  our  con- 
fidence, but  rather  shows  itself  to  be  erroneous 
or  (which  amounts  to  the  same  thing)  incom- 
plete, exaggerated  and  one-sided,  for  the  very 
reason  that  it  does  not  account  for  that  impres- 
sion of  the  grandiose.  Conducted  as  it  has 
been,  it  would  very  well  suit  a  writer  who  was 
a  rhetorician  with  an  appearance  of  warmth, 
a  writer  able  to  make  a  good  show  before  the 
public  and  in  the  theatre,  while  remaining  in- 
ternally unmoved  himself,  superficial  and  frivo- 
lous. But  Corneille  looks  upon  us  and  upon 
those  critics  with  so  serious  and  severe  a 
countenance,  that  we  lose  the  courage  to  treat 
him  in  so  unceremonious  and  so  expeditious  a 

manner. 

Whence  comes  that  air  of  severity,  which 
we  find  not  only  in  his  portraits  but  in  every 
page  of  his  tragedies,  even  in  those  and  in  those 
parts  of  them,  in  which  he  fails  to  hit  the  mark, 
or  appears  to  be  tired,  to  have  lost  his  way, 
and  to  be  making  efforts? 

From  this  fact  alone:  that  Corneille  had 
an  ideal,  an  ideal  in  which  he  believed,  and  to 
which  he  clung  with  all  the  strength  of  his  soul, 
of  which  he  never  lost  sight  and  which  he  al- 
ways tended  to  realise  in  situations,  rhythms, 


« 


*«i 


364 


CORNEILLE'S    IDEAL 


and  words,  seeking  and  finding  his  own  intimate 
satisfaction,  the  incarnation  of  his  ideal,  in 
those  brave  and  solemn  scenes  and  sounds. 

His  contemporaries  felt  this,  and  it  was  for 
this  reason  that  Racine  wrote  that  above  all, 
"  what  was  peculiar  to  Corneille  consisted  of  a 
certain  force,  a  certain  elevation,  which  as- 
tonishes and  carries  us  away,  and  renders  even 
his  defects,  if  there  be  found  some  to  reprove 
him  for  them,  more  estimable  than  the  virtues 
of  others  " ;  and  La  Bruyere  also  summed  it  up 
in  the  phrase  that  **  what  Corneille  possessed  of 
most  eminent  was  his  soul,  which  was  sublime." 

The  most  recent  interpreters  have  found 
Corneille's  ideal  to  reside  in  will  for  its  own 
sake,  the  "  pure  will,''  superior  or  anterior  to 
good  and  evil,  in  the  energy  of  the  will  as  such, 
which  does  not  pay  attention  to  particular  ends. 
Thus  the  false  conception  of  him  as  animated 
with  the  ideal  of  moral  duty  or  with  that  of 
the  triumph  of  duty  over  the  passions  has  been 
eliminated,  and  agreement  has  been  reached,  not 
only  with  the  reality  of  the  tragedies,  but  also 
with  what  Corneille  himself  laid  down  in  his 
Discours  as  to  the  dramatic  personage.  Such 
a  personage  may  indeed  be  plunged  in  all  sorts 
of  crimes,  like  Cleopatra  in  the  Rodogune,  but 


CORNEILLE'S    IDEAL 


365 


in  the  words  of  the  author,  "  all  his  actions  are 
accompanied  with  so  lofty  a  greatness  of  soul 
that  we  adhiire  the  source  whence  his  actions 
flow,  while  we  detest  those  actions  themselves." 

On  the  other  hand,  the  concept  of  the  pure 
will  runs  some  risk  of  being  perverted  at  the 
hands  of  those  who  proceed  to  interpret  it  by 
identification  with  that  other  **  will  for  power  " 
of  Nietzsche,  who  understood  the  French  poet 
in  this  hyperbolical  manner  and  referred  to  him 
with  fervent  admiration  on  account  of  this  fancy 
of  his.  The  ideal  of  the  will  for  power  has 
an  altogether  modern  origin,  in  the  protoro- 
mantic  and  romantic  superman,  in  over-excited 
and  abstract  individualism.  It  did  not  exist  at 
the  time  of  Corneille,  or  in  the  heart  of  the 
poet,  who  was  very  healthy  and  simple.  The 
figures  of  Corneille's  tragedies  must  be  looked 
at  through  coloured  and  deforming  glasses,  as 
supplied  by  fashionable  literature,  in  order  to 
see  in  them  such  attitudes  and  gestures. 

The  further  definition,  which,  while  it  rend- 
ers the  first  conception  more  exact  and  more 
appropriate,  at  the  same  time  shuts  the  door 
on  these  new  fancies,  is  this:  that  Corneille's 
ideal  does  not  express  the  pure  will  at  the  mo- 
ment of  violent  onrush  and  actuation,  but  of 


if  :V4 


\  i 


366 


CORNEILLE'S   IDEAL 


CORNEILLE'S   IDEAL 


fill 


^^•l! 
I 


ponderation  and  reflection,  that  is  to  say,  as 
deliberative  will  This  was  what  Corneille 
truly  loved :  the  spirit  which  deliberates  calmly 
and  serenely  and  having  formed  its  resolution, 
adheres  to  it  with  unshakeable  firmness,  as  to 
a  position  that  has  been  won  with  difficulty  and 
with  difficulty  strengthened.  This  represented 
for  him  the  most  lofty  form  of  strength,  the 
highest  dignity  of  man.  "  Laissez-moi  mieux 
consulter  mon  dme,'*  says  one  of  Corneille's 
personages,  and  all  of  them  think  and  act  in  the 
same  way.  "  Voyons'*  says  the  king  of  the 
Gepidi  to  the  king  of  the  Goths  in  the  Attila, 
" —  voyons  qui  se  doit  vaincre,  et  s*  il  faut  que 
mon  dme  A  votre  ambition  iminole  cette 
flamme.  On  s'il  n'est  point  plus  beau  que  votre 
ambition  Elle-meme  s'immole  a  cette  passion," 
Augustus  hesitates  a  long  while,  and  gives 
vent  to  anguished  lamentations,  when  he  has 
discovered  that  Cinna  is  plotting  against  his 
life,  as  though  to  clear  his  soul  and  to  make  it 
better  capable  of  the  deliberation,  which  begins 
at  once  under  the  influence  of  passion,  in  the 
midst  of  anguish  and  with  anguish.  Has  he 
the  right  to  lament  and  to  become  wrathful? 
Has  he  not  also  made  rivers  of  blood  to  flow? 
Does  he  then  resign  himself  in  his  turn?     Does 


367 


he  forsake  himself  as  the  victim  of  his  own 
past?  Far  from  it:  he  has  a  throne  and  is 
bound  to  defend  it,  and  therefore  will  punish 
the  assassin.  Yes,  but  when  he  has  caused  more 
blood  to  flow,  he  will  find  new  and  greater 
hatreds  surrounding  him,  new  and  more  danger- 
ous plots.  It  is  better,  then,  to  die?  But 
wherefore  die?  Why  should  he  not  enjoy  re- 
venge and  triumph  once  again?  This  is  the 
tumult  of  irresolution,  which,  while  felt  as  a 
hard,  a  desperate  torment,  and  although  it 
seems  to  hold  the  will  in  suspense,  in  reality 
sets  it  in  motion,  insensibly  guiding  it  to  its 
end.  ^'O  rigoureux  combat  d'un  coeur  ir- 
resolu!  .  .  ."  The  more  properly  deliberative 
process  enters  his  breast  with  the  appearance 
upon  the  scene  of  Livia,  to  whose  advice  he  is 
opposed,  for  he  disputes  and  combats  it,  yet 
listens  and  weighs  it,  seeming  finally  to  remain 
still  irresolute,  yet  he  has  already  formed  his 
resolve,  he  has  decided  in  his  heart  to  perform 
an  act  of  political  clemency,  so  thunderous,  so 
lightning-like  in  quality,  as  to  bewilder  his  en- 
emy and  to  hurl  him  vanquished  at  his  feet. 

The  two  brother  princes  in  Rodogune  are 
conversing,  while  they  await  the  announcement 
as  to  which  is  the  legitimate  heir  to  the  throne. 


m 


n 


368         CORNEILLE^S    IDEAL 

Upon  this  announcement  also  depends  which 
shall  become  the'happy  husband  of  Rodogune, 
whom  they  both  love  with  an  equal  ardour. 
How  will  they  face  and  support  the  decision  of 
fate?     One  of  the  two,  uncertain  and  anxious 
about   the    future,   proposes   to   renounce   the 
throne  in  favour  of  his  brother,  provided  the 
latter  renounces  Rodogune;  but  he  is  met  with 
the  same  proposal  by  the  other.     Thus  the  sat- 
isfaction of  both,  by  means  of  mutual  renuncia- 
tion, is  precluded.     But  the  other  course  is  also 
precluded,  that  of  strife  and  conflict,  for  their 
brotherly  affection  is  firm,  and  so  is  the  senti- 
ment of  moral  duty  in  both.     This  also  forbids 
the  one  sacrificing  himself  for  the  other,  because 
neither  would  accept  the  sacrifice.     What  can  be 
saved  from  a  collision,  from  which  it  seems  that 
nothing  can  be  saved?     One  of  the  two  broth- 
ers,  after  these  various  and  equally  vain  at- 
tempts at  finding  a  solution,  returns  upon  him- 
self, descends  to  the  bottom  of  his  soul,  finds 
there  a  better  motive  and  is  the  first  to  formu- 
late the  unique  resolution :     ''  Malgre  I' eclat  du 
trone  at  ramotir  d'une  femme,  Faisons  si  bien 
regner  ramitie  sur  notre  dme,  Quetouffant  dans 
leur  perte  tin  regret  suborneur,  Dans  le  bonheur 
d'lin  frere  on  trouve  son  bonheur,  .  .  ."  And  the 


CORNEILLE^S   IDEAL 


369 


other,  who  has  not  been  the  first  to  see  and  to 
follow  this  path  asks :  ''  Le  pourriez,  vous  mon 
frere?  "  The  first  replies :  ''  Ah;  que  vous  me 
pressez!  Je  le  voudrais  du  moins,  mon  frere, 
et  c'est  assez;  et  ma  raison  sur  moi  gardera  tant 
d^ empire,  Que  je  desavourai  mon  coeur^  s'il  en 
soupire/^  The  other,  firm  in  his  turn  replies: 
**  Tembrasse  comme  vous  ces  nobles  senti' 
ments.  .  .  ." 

Loving  as  he  did,  in  this  way,  the  work  of  the 
deliberative  will  (we  have  recorded  two  only 
of  the  situations  in  his  tragedies,  and  we  could 
cite  hundreds),  Corneille  did  not  love  love,  a 
thing  that  withdraws  itself  from  deliberation, 
a  severe  illness,  which  man  discovers  in  his  body, 
like  fire  in  his  house,  without  having  willed  it 
and  without  knowing  how  it  got  there.  Some- 
times the  deliberative  will  is  affected  by  it  and 
for  the  moment  at  least  upset,  and  then  we  hear 
the  cry  of  Attila :  "  Quel  nouveau  coup  de 
foudre!  O  raison  confondue,  orgueil  presque 
etouffe.  .  .  ."  as  he  struggles  against  its  en- 
chantments: ^^  cruel  poison  de  Fame  et  doux 
charme  des  yeuxJ'  But  as  a  general  rule,  he 
promptly  drives  it  away  from  him,  coldly  and 
scornfully ;  or  he  subdues  it  and  employs  it  as  a 
means  and  an  assistance  in  far  graver  matters, 


370 


CORNEILLE'S   IDEAL 


% 

■'■A .. 


such  as  ambition,  politics,  the  State;  or  he  ac- 
cepts it  for  what  it  contains  of  useful  and 
worthy,  which  as  such  is  the  object  and  the 
fruit  of  deliberation.  "  Ce  ne  sont  pas  les  sens 
que  mon  amour  consulte:  II  halt  des  passions 
Vimpetueux  tumulte.  .  .  ."  Certainly,  this  at- 
titude is  intransigent,  ascetic  and  severe:  but 
what  of  it?  "  Un  peu  ce  durete  sied  hien  aux 
grandes  dmes**  Certainly  love  comes  out  of 
it  diminished  and  humiliated:  **  U Amour 
n^est  pas  le  maitre  alors  qu*on  delibere  ";  love 
deserves  its  fate  and  almost  deserves  the  gibe : 
"  La  seule  politique  est  ce  qui  nous  emeut;  On 
la  suit  et  V amour  s*y  mele  comme  il  peut:  S'il 
vient  on  Fapplaudit;  s'il  manque  on  s^en  con- 
sole. .  .  ."  It  manages  as  best  it  can  and  be- 
comes less  powerful  and  wonderfully  ductile 
beneath  this  pressure,  ready  to  bend  in  whatever 
direction  it  is  commanded  to  bend  by  the  reason. 
Sometimes  it  remains  suspended  between  two 
persons,  like  a  balance,  which  awaits  the  addi- 
tion of  a  weight  in  order  to  lean  over :  ".  .  .  Ce 
coeur  des  deux  parts  engage,  Se  donnant  a  vous 
deux  ne  s*est  point  partage,  Toujours  pret  d^em- 
hrasser  son  service  et  le  voire,  Toujours  pret  a 
moiirir  et  pour  I'un  et  pour  V autre.  Pour  n'en 
adorer  qu'une,  il  eut  fallu  choisir;  Et  ce  choix 


CORNEILLE^S   IDEAL 


371 


eut  ete  au  moins  quelque  desir,  Quelque  espoir 
outrageux  d^etre  mieux  regu  d'elle,  .  .  ."  On 
another  occasion,  although  there  might  be  some 
inclination  or  desire,  rather  toward  the  one  than 
the  other  side,  it  is  yet  kept  secret,  beneath  the 
resolve  to  suffocate  it  altogether,  should  reason 
ordain  that  love  must  flow  into  a  contrary 
channel.  Not  only  are  Corneille's  personages 
told  to  their  face:  "//  ne  faut  plus  aimer/' 
an  act  of  renunciation  to  be  asked  of  a  saint, 
but  they  are  also  bidden  thus :  "  //  faut  aimer 
ailleurs,"  an  act  worthy  of  a  martyr. 

He  did  not  love  love,  not  because  it  is  love, 
but  because  it  is  passion,  which  carries  one 
away  and  which,  if  it  be  allowed  to  do  so,  will 
not  consent  to  state  the  terms  of  the  debate 
clearly,  and  engage  in  deliberation.  His  dis- 
like for  the  inebriation  of  hatred  and  of  anger, 
which  blind  or  confound  the  vision,  and  which, 
as  passion,  is  also  foreign  to  his  ideal,  also  ap- 
pears in  confirmation  of  this  view.  **  Qui  hait 
brutalement  permet  tout  a  sa  haine,  II  s'emporte 
ou  sa  fureur  Ventraine,  .  .  .  Mais  qui  hait  par 
devoir  ne  s'aveugle  jamais;  c'est  sa  raison  qui 
hait.  .  .  ."  His  ideal  personages  sometimes 
declare,  when  face  to  face  with  their  enemy: 
"  je  te  dois  estimer,  mais  je  te  dois  hair. 


p 


.v^  ff 


372 


CORNEILLE'S    IDEAL 


On  the  other  hand,  we  perceive  clearly  why 
Corneille  was  led  to  admire  the  will,  even  when 
without  moral  illumination,  even  indeed  when 
it  is  actively  opposed  to  or  without  morality; 
for  it  has  the  power  of  not  yielding  to  and  of 
dominating  the  passions,  of  not  being  violent 
weakness,  but  strength,  or  as  it  was  called  dur- 
ing the  Renaissance,  "  virtii/'  In  that  sphere 
of  deliberation  there  existed  a  common  ground 
of  mutual  understanding  between  the  honest 
and  dishonest  man,  between  the  hero  of  evil  and 
the  hero  of  good,  for  each  pursued  a  course 
of  duty,  in  his  own  way  and  both  agreed  in  with- 
standing and  despising  the  madness  of  the  pas- 
sions. 

And  we  also  see  why  the  domain  towards 
which  Corneille  directed  his  gaze  and  for  which 
he  had  a  special  predilection,  was  bound  to  be 
that  of  politics,  where  "  virtu,"  in  the  sense  that 
it  possessed  during  the  period  of  the  Renais- 
sance, found  ample  opportunity  for  free  expan- 
sion and  for  self-realisation.  In  politics,  we 
find  ourselves  continuously  in  difficult  and  con- 
tradictory situations,  where  acuteness  and  long 
views  are  of  importance  and  where  it  is  neces- 
sary to  make  calculations  as  to  the  interests 
and  passions  of  men,  to  act  energetically  upon 


CORNEILLE'S    IDEAL 


373 


what  has  been  decided  after  nice  weighing  in  the 
balance,  to  be  firm  as  well  as  prudent.  It  has 
been  jocosely  observed  by  William  Schlegel  that 
Corneille,  the  most  upright  and  honest  of  men, 
was  more  Machiavellian  than  any  Machiavelli 
in  his  treatment  and  representfition  of  politics, 
that  he  boasted  of  the  art  of  deceiving,  and  that 
he  had  no  notion  of  true  politics,  which  are  less 
complicated  and  far  more  adroit  and  adaptable. 
Lemaitre  too  admits  that  in  this  respect  he  was 
**  fort  candide!^  But  who  is  not  excessive  in 
the  things  that  he  loves?  Who  is  not  some- 
times too  candid  regarding  them,  with  that  can- 
dour and  simplicity  which  is  born  of  faith  and 
enthusiasm?  His  very  lack  of  experience  in 
real  politics,  his  simplicism  and  exaggeration  in 
conceiving  them,  is  there  to  confirm  the  vigour 
of  his  affection  for  the  ideal  of  the  politician,  as 
supremely  expressed  by  the  man  who  ponders 
and  deliberates.  He  always  has  la  raison 
d'etat  and  les  maximes  d'etat  upon  his  lips. 
We  feel  that  these  words  and  phrases  move, 
edify  and  arouse  in  him  an  ecstasy  of  admira- 
tion. 

It  was  free  determination  and  complete  sub- 
mission to  reason,  duty,  objective  utility,  to 
what  was  fitting  —  and  not  a  spirit  of  courtly 


m 


'  ii 


I 


374  CORNEILLE'S    IDEAL 

adulation  —  that  led  him  to  look  with  an  equal 
ecstasy  of  admiration  upon  personages  in  high 
positions  and  upon  monarchs,  the  summit  of  the 
pyramid.  He  did  not  therefore  admit  them 
because  they  can  do  everything,  still  less  be- 
cause they  can  enjoy  everything,  but  on  the  con- 
trary, because,  owing  to  their  office,  their  dis- 
cipline and  tradition,  they  are  accustomed  to 
sacrifice  their  private  affections  and  to  conduct 
themselves  in  obedience  to  motives  superior  to 
the  individual.  Kings  too  have  a  heart,  they 
too  are  exposed  to  the  soft  snares  of  love;  but 
better  than  all  others  they  know  what  is  be- 
coming behaviour:  '' Je  suis  reine  et  dois 
regner  sur  moi:  le  rang  que  nous  tenons^  jaloux 
de  notre  gloire,  Souvent  dans  un  tel  choix  nous 
defend  de  nous  croire,  Jette  sur  nos  desks  un 
joug  imperieux,  Et  dedaigne  Vavis  et  du  coeur  et 
des  yeuxJ'  And  elsewhere :  "  Les  princes  ont 
cela  de  leur  haute  naissance,  Leur  dme  dans  leur 
rang  prend  des  impressions  Qui  dessous  leur 
vertu  rangent  leurs  passions;  Leur  generosite 
soumet  tout  a  leur  gloire,  .  .  ."  They  love, 
certainly,  as  it  happens  to  all  to  love,  but  they 
do  not  on  that  account  yield  to  the  attractions 
of  the  senses.  "/^  ne  le  cele  point,  j'aime, 
Carlos,  oui,  faime;  Mais  V amour  de  Vetat  plus 


CORNEILLE'S   IDEAL         375 

fort  que  de  moi-meme,  Cherche,  au  lieu  de  rob- 
jet  le  plus  doux  a  mes  yeux,  Le  plus  digne  heros 
de  regner  en  ces  lieuxJ'     His  predilection  for 
history,  especially  for  Roman  history,  has  the 
same  root,  and  had  long  been  elaborated  as  an 
ideal  —  even  in  the  Rome  of  the  Empire,  yet 
more  so  at  the  time  of  the  Renaissance  and  dur- 
ing the  post-Renaissance,  and  even  in  the  schools 
of  the  Jesuits.     It  was  thus  transformed  into  a 
history  that  afforded  examples  of  civic  virtues, 
such  as  self-sacrifice,  heroism,  and  greatness  of 
resolve.     We  spare  the  reader  the  demonstra- 
tion that  this  tendency  was  altogether  different 
from,  and  indeed  opposed  to  historical  knowl- 
edge and  to  the  so-called  "  historical  sense,"  be- 
cause questions  of  this  sort  and  the  accompany- 
ing eulogies  accorded  to  Corneille  as  a  histor- 
ian, are  now  to  be  looked  upon  as  antiquated. 
The  historical  relations  of  Corneille's  ideal 
are  clearly  indicated  or  at  any  rate  adumbrated 
in  these  references  and  explanations,  as  also  its 
incipience  and  genesis,  which  is  to  be  found,  as 
we  have  stated,  in  the  theory  and  practice  of 
the   Renaissance,   concerning  politics   and   the 
office  of  the  sovereign  or  prince,  and  for  the  rest 
in  the  ethics  of  stoicism,  which  was  so  widely 
diffused  in  the  second  half  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 


\ 


376         CORNEILLE'S   IDEAL 

tury,  and  not  less  in  France  than  elsewhere. 
The  image  of  Corneille  is  surrounded  in  our 
imagination  with  all  those  volumes,  containing 
baroque  frontispieces  illustrative  of  historical 
scenes,  which  at  that  time  saw  the  light  every 
day  in  all  parts  of  Europe.  They  were  the 
works  of  the  moralists,  of  the  Machiavellians, 
of  the  Taciteans,  of  the  councillors  in  the  art  of 
adroit  behaviour  at  court,  of  the  Jesuit  casuists 
Botero  and  Ribadeneyra,  Sanchez  and  Mariana, 
Valeriano  Castiglione  and  Matteo  Pellegrini, 
Gracian  and  Amelot  de  la  Houssaye,  Balzac 
and  Naudee,  Scioppio  and  Justus  Lipsius. 
They  might  be  described  as  comprizing  a  com- 
plete and  conspicuous  section  of  the  Library  of 
the  Manzonian  Don  Ferrante,  the  "intellec- 
tual "  of  the  seventeenth  century. 

Such  literature  as  this  and  the  history  of  the 
time  itself  have  been  more  than  once  given  as 
the  source  of  the  poetical  inspiration  proper  to 
Corneille,  and  indeed  they  appear  spontaneously 
in  the  mind  of  anyone  acquainted  with  the  par- 
ticular mode  of  thought  and  of  manners  that 
have  prevailed  during  the  various  epochs  of 
modern  society.  It  is  therefore  unpleasant  to 
find  critics  intent  on  fishing  out  other  origins 
for  it,  in  an  obscure  determinism  of  race  and 


CORNEILLE'S    IDEAL 


377 


religion,  almost  as  if  disgusted  with  the  obvious 
explanation,  which  Is  certainly  the  only  true 
one  in  this  case,  pointing  out  for  instance  in 
Corneille  "  an  energy  that  comes  from  the 
north,"  that  Is  to  say  from  the  Germany  that 
produced  Luther  and  Kant,  or  from  the  country 
that  was  occupied  for  a  time  by  their  forefa- 
thers the  Normans,  those  Scandinavian  pirates 
who  disembarked  under  the  leadership  of  Rollo 
(if  this  fancy  originated  with  Lemaitre,  they  all 
repeat  it) ;  or  they  discover  the  characteristic 
of  his  poetry  in  the  subtlety  and  litigious  spirit 
of  the  Norman,  and  In  the  lawyer  and  magis- 
trate whose  functions  he  fulfilled. 

The  customary  association  of  his  ideal  with 
the  theory  of  Descartes  is  also  without  much 
truth.  Chronological  incompatibility  would  in 
any  case  preclude  derivation  or  repercussion 
from  this  source,  the  utmost  that  could  be  ad- 
mitted being  that  both  possessed  common  ele- 
ments, since  they  were  both  descended  from  a 
common  patrimony  of  culture,  namely  the 
stoical  morality  already  mentioned,  and  from 
the  cult  of  wisdom  in  general.  In  Descartes,  as 
later  in  Spinoza,  the  tendency  was  towards  the 
domination  of  the  passions  by  means  of  the  in- 
tellect or  the  pure  intelligence,  which  dissipates 


i\ 


378 


CORNEILLE'S   IDEAL 


CORNEILLE^S   IDEAL 


379 


them  by  knowing  and  thinking  them,  while  with 
Corneille  the  domination  was  all  to  be  effected 
by  means  of  an  effort  of  the  will. 

The  historical  element  in  the  ideal  of  Cor- 
neille does  not  mean  that  its  value  was  restricted 
to  the  times  of  the  author  and  should  be  looked 
upon  as  having  disappeared  with  the  disappear- 
ance of  those  customs  and  doctrines,  because 
every  time  expresses  human  eternal  truth  in  its 
forms  that  are  historically  determined,  laying 
in  each  case  especial  stress  upon  particular  as- 
pects or  moments  of  the  spirit.  The  idea  of 
the  deliberative  will  has  been  removed  in  our 
day  to  the  second  rank,  indeed  it  has  almost 
been  lost  in  the  background,  under  the  pressure 
of  other  forces  and  of  other  more  urgent  as- 
pects of  reality.  Yet  it  possesses  eternal  vigour 
and  is  perpetually  returning  to  the  mind  and 
soul,  through  the  poets  and  philosophers  and 
through  the  complexities  of  life  itself,  which 
make  us  feel  its  beauty  and  importance.  The 
history  of  the  manners,  of  the  patriotism,  of  the 
moral  spirit,  of  the  military  spirit  of  France, 
bears  witness  to  this,  for  one  of  its  mainstays 
in  the  past  as  in  the  present  has  been  the 
tragedies  of  Corneille.  The  heroic,  the  tragic 
Charlotte    Corday   gave    reality   in    her    own 


person  to  one  of  Corneille's  characters,  so  full 
of  will  power  and  ready  for  any  enterprise :  she 
was  one  of  those  aimahles  furies,  nourished  like 
the  tyrannicides  of  the  Renaissance  on  the  Lives 
of  Plutarch,  whom  her  great  forefather  had  set 
on  paper  with  such  delight. 

It  is  inconceivable  that  such  heroines  as  she, 
sublime  in  their  meditated  volitional  act, 
should  have  been  audaciously  classed  and  con- 
founded with  those  weak  and  impulsive  beings 
extolled  by  the  philosophers  and  artists  of  the 
will  for  power,  from  Stendhal  to  Nietzsche, 
who  freely  sought  their  models  among  the  de- 
generates of  the  criminal  prisons. 

The  whole  life  of  Corneille,  the  whole  of  his 
long  activity,  was  dominated  by  the  ideal  that 
we  have  described,  with  a  constancy  and  a  co- 
herence which  leaps  to  the  eye  of  anyone  who 
examines  the  particulars.^  As  a  young  man,  he 
touched  various  strings  of  the  lyre,  the  tragedy 
of  horrors  in  the  manner  of  Seneca  (Medee)^ 
eccentric  comedy  in  Ulllusion  comique,  the  ro- 
mantic drama  of  adventures  and  incidents  in 
Clitandre,  the  comedies  of  love ;  but  we  already 
find  many  signs  in  these  works  and  especially 
in  the  comedies,  of  the  tendency  to  fix  the  will  in 
certain  situations,  as  will  for  a  purpose  and 


38o 


CORNEILLE'S   IDEAL 


CORNEILLE'S    IDEAL 


381 


choice.  After  his  novitiate  (in  which  period 
is  to  be  comprehended  the  Cid,  which  is  rather 
an  attempt  than  a  realisation,  rather  a  begin- 
ning than  an  end)  he  proceeded  in  a  straight 
line  and  with  over  increasing  resolution  and 
self-consciousness.  It  is  due  to  a  prejudice, 
born  of  extrinsic  or  certainly  but  little  acute 
considerations,  that  an  interval  should  be  placed 
between  the  Cid  and  the  later  works,  though 
this  was  done  by  Schlegel,  by  Sainte-Beuve  and 
by  many  others,  both  foreigners  and  French. 
They  deplored  that  Corneille  should  have 
abandoned  the  Spanish  mediaeval  and  knightly 
style,  so  in  harmony  with  his  generous,  grand- 
iose and  imaginative  inclinations,  so  full  of 
promise  for  the  romantic  future,  and  should 
have  restricted  himself  to  the  Graeco-Roman 
world  and  to  political  tragedy.  It  is  impossible 
(as  we  have  shown  in  passing),  to  assert  the 
originality  and  the  beauty  of  the  Cid,  when  it 
is  compared  with  and  set  in  opposition  to  the 
model  offered  to  Corneille  by  Guillen  de  Castro. 
Now  if  there  is  not  to  be  found  beauty,  there 
is  certainly  to  be  found  a  sort  of  originality  in 
the  personality  of  Corneille,  who  eats  into  the 
popular  epicity  of  the  model  and  substitutes  for 
it  the  study  of  deliberative  situations.     The 


harmonious  versification  of  these  explains  in 
great  part  the  success  which  the  play  met  with 
in  a  society  accustomed  to  debate  "  questions  of 
love  ''  (as  they  had  been  called  since  the  period 
of  the  troubadours  at  the  Renaissance),  and 
those  of  honour  and  knighthood,  of  challenges 
and  duels.     But  on  the  other  hand,  the  reason 
of  its  success  was  also  to  be  found  in  what  per- 
sisted scattered  here  and  there  of  the  ardour 
and    tenderness    of   the    original    play,    which 
moved    the    spectators    and    made    them   love 
Chimene :     ''  Tout  Paris  pour  Chimene  a  les 
yeux  de  Rr^drigue''     Yet  these  words  of  ten- 
derness and  strong  expressions,  though  beau- 
tiful in  themselves,  show  themselves  to  be  rather 
foreign  to  the  new  form  of  the  drama,  and 
there  is  some  truth  in  the  strange  remark  of 
Klein:  that  ''  there  is  not  enough  Cidlan  elec- 
tricity,   enough   material    for    electro-dramatic 
shocks  in  that  atmosphere  full  of  the  exhala- 
tions of  the  antichambre,  to  produce  a  slap  in 
the  face  of  equally  pathetic  force  and  conse- 
quence ''  with  the  hofetada  which  Count  Lozano 
applied    to    the    countenance   of   the    decrepit 
Diego   Laynez   in   the   Spanish   drama.     And 
there  is  truth  also  in  the  judgment  of  the  Acad- 
emy, that  the  subject  of  the  Cid  is  "  defective 


h  a 


f 


382 


CORNEILLE'S  IDEAL 


1 


in  the  essential  part "  and  "  lacking  in  veri- 
similitude " ;  of  course  not  because  it  was  so 
with  Guillen  de  Castro,  or  that  a  subject,  that 
is  to  say,  mere  material,  can  be  of  itself  good  or 
bad,  verisimilar  or  the  reverse,  poetic  or  un- 
poetic,  but  because  it  had  become  defective 
and  discordant  in  the  hands  of  Corneille, 
who  elaborated  and  refined  it.  Rodrigue, 
Jimena  the  lady  Urraca,  are  simple,  spontane- 
ous, almost  childlike  souls,  in  the  mould  of  popu- 
lar heroes.  Chimene  and  Rodrigue  and  the 
Infanta  are  reflective  and  dialectical  spirits, 
and  since  their  novel  psychological  attitude  does 
not  chime  well  with  the  old-fashioned  manner 
of  behaviour,  Rodrigue  and  the  father  some- 
times appear  to  be  charlatans,  Chimene  some- 
times even  a  hypocrite,  the  Infanta  insipid  and 
superfluous.  Also,  when  Corneille  returned  to 
the  "  Spanish  style,"  in  Don  Sanche  d!Aragon, 
he  charged  it  with  reflections  and  ponderations 
and  deliberative  resolutions,  without  aiming  at 
the  picturesque,  as  the  romantics  did  later,  but 
at  dialectic  and  subtlety.  It  must  however  be 
admitted  that  all  this  represents  a  superiority, 
if  viewed  from  another  angle :  but  this  superior- 
ity does  not  reside  in  the  artistic  effect  obtained; 


CORNEILLE^S   IDEAL 


383 


it  is  rather  mental  and  cultural  and  represents  a 
more  complex  and  advanced  humanity. 

Thus  the  Cid  is  to  be  looked  upon  as  really  a 
work  of  transition,  a  transition  to  the  Horace^ 
which  has  seemed  to  a  learned  German,  to  be 
substantially  the  same  as  the  CVrf,  the  Cid  re- 
constructed after  the  censures  passed  upon  it 
by  his  adversaries  and  in  the  Academy,  which 
Corneille  inwardly  felt  to  be,  in  a  certain  meas- 
ure at  any  rate,  just.     But  another  prejudice 
creates  a  gap  between  what  are  called  the  four 
principal  tragedies,  the  Cid,  the  Horace,  the 
Cinna  and  the  Polyeucte  —  '  the  great  Cornel- 
ian    quadrilateral''    eulogised    by    Peguy    in 
rambling  prose,— and  the  later  tragedies,  as 
though  Corneille  had  changed  his  method  in 
these  and  begun  to  pursue  another  ideal,  "  po- 
litical tragedy."     Setting  aside  for  the  time  be- 
ing the  question  of  greater  or  lesser  artistic 
value,  it  is  certain  that  he  never  really  changed 
his  method.     In  the  Horace,  there  is  no  sug- 
gestion of  the  ferocious  national  sanctity  of  a 
primitive  society,  in  the  Cinna,  there  is  no  trace 
of  the  imagined  tragedy  of  satiety  or  of  the 
lassitude,  which  the  sanguinary  Augustus  is  sup- 
posed  to   have   experienced.     The   Polyeucte 


H 


N 


384 


CORNEILLE'S    IDEAL 


does  not  contain  a  shadow  of  the  fervour,  the 
delirium,  the  fanaticism,  of  a  religion  in  the  act 
of  birth,  but  as  Schlegel  well  expressed  it,  "  a 
firm  and  constant  faith  rather  than  a  true  re- 
ligious enthusiasm."  In  the  four  tragedies 
above  mentioned,  le  coetir  is  not  supreme,  any 
more  than  P esprit  is  supreme  in  the  later  trage- 
dies, but  **  political  tragedy  ''  is  present  more  or 
less  in  all  of  them,  in  the  intrinsic  sense  of  a 
representation  of  calculations,  ponderations  and 
resolutions,  and  often  too  in  the  more  evident 
sense  of  State  aff.iirs.  He  pursues  these  and 
suchlike  forms  of  representation,  heedless,  firm 
and  obstinate,  notwithstanding  the  disfavour  of 
the  public  and  of  the  critics,  who  asked  for  other 
things.  They  divest  themselves  of  extraneous 
elements  and  attain  to  the  perfection  at  which 
they  aimed.  This  may  be  observed  in  one 
of  the  very  latest,  the  Pulcherie.  The  au- 
thor congratulated  himself  upon  its  half-suc- 
cess or  shadow  of  success,  declaring  that  **  it  is 
not  always  necessary  to  follow  the  fashion  of 
the  time,  in  order  to  be  successful  on  the  stage.*' 
•  Just  previously,  he  was  pleased  with  Saint- 
£vremond  for  his  approbation  of  the  secondary 
place  to  be  assigned  to  love  in  tragedy,  **  for  it 
is  a  passion  too  surcharged  with  weaknesses  to 


CORNEILLE'S    IDEAL 


385 


be  dominant  in  a  heroic  drama."  Voltaire  was 
struck  with  this  constancy  to  the  original  line  of 
development,  for  he  felt  bound  to  remark  at 
the  conclusion  of  his  commentary,  not  without 
astonishment  and  in  opposition  to  the  current 
opinion,  that  "  he  wrote  very  unequally,  but  I 
do  not  know  that  he  had  an  unequal  genius,  as 
is  maintained  by  some ;  because  I  always  see  him 
intent,  alike  in  his  best  and  in  his  inferior  works, 
upon  the  force  and  the  profundity  of  the  ideas. 
He  is  always  more  disposed  to  debate  than  to 
move,  and  he  reveals  himself  rich  in  finding  ex- 
pedients to  support  the  most  ungrateful  of  ar- 
guments, though  these  are  but  little  tragic,  since 
he  makes  a  bad  choice  of  his  subjects  from  the 
Oedipe  onwards,  where  he  certainly  does  devise 
intrigues,  but  these  are  of  small  account  and 
lack  both  warmth  and  life.  In  his  last  works 
he  is  trying  to  delude  himself."  But  Corneille 
did  not  delude  himself;  rather  he  knew  himself, 
and  he  himself  the  author  was  a  personage  who 
had  deliberated  and  had  made  up  his  mind,  once 
and  for  all. 

The  vigour  of  this  resolution  and  the  com- 
pactness of  the  work  which  resulted  from  it,  are 
not  diminished,  but  are  rather  stressed  by  the 
fact  that  Corneille  possessed  other  aptitudes 


386 


CORNEILLE'S    IDEAL 


and  sources  of  inspiration,  which  he  neglected 
and  of  which  he  made  little  or  no  use.  Cer- 
tainly, the  poet  who  versified  the  delicious 
Psyche,  in  collaboration  with  Moliere,  would 
have  been  able,  had  he  so  desired,  to  enter  into 
the  graces  of  those  "  doucereux'*  and  "  enjoues/* 
whom  he  despised.  There  are  witty,  tender 
and  melancholy  poems  among  his  miscellaneous 
works,  and  in  certain  parts  of  the  paraphrase  of 
the  Imitation  and  other  sacred  compositions, 
there  is  a  religious  fervour  that  is  to  seek  in  the 
Polyeucte.  His  youthful  comedies  contain  a 
power  of  observation  of  life,  replete  with  pas- 
sionate sympathy,  which  foreshadows  the  com- 
ing social  drama.  We  refer  especially  to  cer- 
tain personages  and  scenes  o'^f  the  Galerie  du  Pa^ 
lais,  of  the  Veuve  and  of  the  Suivante;  to  cer- 
tain studies  of  marriageable  girls,  obedient  to 
the  resolve  of  their  parents,  and  to  mothers, 
who  still  carry  in  their  heart  how  much  that 
submission  cost  them  in  the  past  and  do  not 
wish  to  abuse  the  power  which  they  possess  over 
their  daughters.  There  are  also  certain  tremu- 
Ibus  meetings  of  lovers,  who  had  been  sepa- 
rated and  are  annoyingly  interrupted  by  the  ir- 
ruption of  prosaic  reality  in  the  shape  of  their  re- 
lations and  friends   {**  Ah!  mere,  soeur,  ami, 


CORNEILLE'S   IDEAL 


387 


comme  vous  m'  importunez!  ")  and  certain  odi- 
ous and  painful  psychological  cases,  like  that  of 
Amaranthe,  the  poor  girl  of  good  family,  who 
Is  made  companion  of  the  richer  girl,  not  supe- 
rior to  her  either  in  attractiveness,  or  spirit,  or 
grace,  or  blood.  She  envies  and  intrigues 
against  her,  attempts  to  carry  off  her  lover  and 
being  finally  vanquished,  hurls  bitter  words  at 
society  and  distils  venomous  maledictions. 

''  Curieux,**  "  etonnant**  *'  etrange,"  "  para- 
doxal,** "  deconcertant,''  are  the  epithets  that 
the  critics  alternately  apply  to  the  personage  of  , 
Alidor,  in  the  Place  Roy  ale,  and  Corneille  him- 
self calls  him  "  extravagant "  in  the  examina- 
tion of  his  work  that  he  wrote  lat^r.  All  too 
have  held  that  uncompromising  lover  of  his  own 
liberty  to  be  very  **  Cornelian  "  or  **  pure  Cor- 
nelian," who  although  in  love,  is  afraid  of 
love,  because  it  threatens  to  deprive  him  of  his 
internal  freedom.  He  therefore  tries  to  throw 
the  woman  he  loves  and  who  adores  him,  into 
the  arms  of  others,  by  stratagem.  Failing  in 
this  endeavour,  and  being  finally  abandoned  by 
the  lady  herself,  who  decides  to  enter  a  con- 
vent, instead  of  sorrowing  or  at  least  being  mor- 
tified at  this,  he  rejoices  at  his  good  fortune. 
Indeed,  Corneille,  despite  the  t^rdy  epithet  of 


t 


388 


CORNEILLE'S    IDEAL 


"  extravagant'*  which  he  affixes  to  this  per- 
sonage, does  not  turn  him  to  ridicule  in  the  com- 
edy, nor  does  he  condemn  or  criticise  him.  On 
.the  contrary,  in  the  dedicatory  epistle,  ad- 
dressed to  an  anonymous  gentleman,  who  might 
be  the  very  character  in  question,  he  approves 
of  the  theory,  which  Alidor  illustrates.  **  I 
have  learned  from  you  '' —  he  writes  — "  that 
the  love  of  an  honest  man  must  always  be  volun- 
tary; that  he  must  never  love  in  one  way  what 
he  cannot  but  love;  that  if  he  should  find  him- 
self reduced  to  this  extremity,  it  amounts  to  a 
tyranny  and  the  yoke  must  be  shaken  off. 
Finally,  the  loved  one  must  have  by  so  much 
the  more  claim  to  our  love,  in  so  far  as  it  is  the 
result  of  our  choice  and  of  the  loved  one's 
merit  and  does  not  derive  from  blind  inclination 
imposed  upon  us  by  a  heredity  which  we  are  un- 
able to  resist."  But  the  disconcertion  and  per- 
plexity caused  by  the  play  in  question,  have  their 
origin  in  this;  that  Corneille  had  not  yet  suc- 
ceeded in  repressing  and  suppressing  the  spon- 
taneous emotions,  and  therefore  throws  his 
ideal  creation  into  the  midst  of  a  throng  of  be- 
ings, whose  limbs  are  softer,  their  blood  warmer 
and  more  tumultuous,  who  love  and  suffer  and 
despair,   like  Angelique.     This  would   render 


CORNEILLE'S    IDEAL 


389 


that  ideal  personage  comic,  ironical  and  ex- 
travagant, if  the  poet  did  not  for  his  part  think 
and  feel  it  to  be  altogether  serious.  A  subtle 
flaw,  therefore,  permeates  every  part  of  the 
play,  which  lacks  fusion  and  unity  of  fundamen- 
tal motive.  This  is  doubtless  a  grave  defect, 
but  a  defect  which  adds  weight  to  the  psycho- 
logical document  that  it  contains,  proving  the 
absolute  power  which  the  ideal  of  the  delibera- 
tive will  was  acquiring  in  Corneille. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  MECHANISM  OF  THE  CORNELIAN 

TRAGEDY 

The  ideal  of  the  deliberative  will,  then, 
formed  the  real,  living  passion  of  this  man  de- 
void of  passions;  for  no  one  that  lives  can  with- 
hold himself  from  passion:  he  is  only  able  to 
change  its  object  by  passing  from  one  to  the 
other.  The  judgment  that  holds  Corneille  to 
be  an  intrinsically  prosaic,  ratiocinatory  and 
casuistical  genius  is  therefore  to  be  looked  upon 
as  lacking  of  penetration.  Had  he  been  a  cas- 
uist, it  seems  clear  that  he  would  have  com- 
posed casuistical  works.  Nor  did  he  lack  of 
requests  and  encouragement  in  that  direction  in 
the  literature  that  was  admired  and  sought 
after  in  his  time.  Instead,  however,  of  ac- 
ceding to  them,  he  dwelt  ever  in  the  world  of 
poetry  and  was  occupied  throughout  his  life, 
up  to  his  seventieth  year,  with  the  composition 
of  tragedies.  He  was  not  a  casuist,  although 
he  loved  casuistry :  these  two  things  are  as  dif- 

390 


CORNELIAN   TRAGEDY       391 

ferent  as  the  love  for  warlike  representations 
and  accounts  of  wars  and  the  being  actually  a 
soldier,  the  pefpetual  dwelling  of  the  imagina- 
tion upon  matters  of  business,  commerce  and 
speculation  (like  Honore  de  Balzac  for  in- 
stance), and  being  really  a  man  of  business. 
Nor  can  his  gift  be  described  as  merely  that  of 
a  didactic  poet,  although  he  often  gives  a  dis- 
sertation in  verse,  because  he  was  not  inspired 
with  the  wish  to  teach,  but  rather  to  admire  and 
to  present  the  power  and  the  triumphs  of  the 
free  will  for  admiration.  Those  philologists 
who  have  patiently  set  to  work  to  reconstruct 
Corneille's  conception  of  the  State  into  a  StaatS' 
idee  have  not  understood  this.  Corneille's 
conception  of  the  State,  of  absolute  monarchy, 
of  the  king^  of  legitimacy,  of  ministers,  of  sub- 
jects, and  so  on,  were  not  by  any  means  in  him 
political  doctrine,  but  just  forms  and  symbols  of 
an  attitude  of  mind,  which  he  caressed  and  idol- 
ised. 

The  enquiry  as  to  the  nature  and  degree  and 
tone  of  that  passion  differs  altogether  from  the 
fact  of  Corneille's  powerful  passionality,  as  to 
which  there  can  be  no  doubt.  The  problem, 
that  is  to  say,  is,  whether  passion,  which  is  cer- 
tainly a  necessary  condition  for  poetry,  was  so 


,1 


392       CORNELIAN   TRAGEDY 

shaped  and  found  in  him  such  compensations 
and  restraints  as  to  yield  itself  with  docility  to 
poetry  and  to  give  it  a  fair  field  for  expression. 
It  is  well  known  that  the  sovereign  passion,  the 
pain  that  renders  mute,  the  love  that  leads  to 
raving,  impede  the  dream  of  the  poet,  they  im- 
pede artistic  treatment,  the  cult  of  perfect  form 
and  the  joy  in  beauty.  There  is  too  a  form  of 
passion,  which  has  in  it  something  of  the  prac- 
tical: it  is  more  occupied  with  embodying  its 
favourite  dreams,  in  order  to  obtain  from  them 
stimulus  and  incentive,  than  with  fathoming 
them  poetically  and  idealising  them  in  contem- 
plation. 

It  seems  impossible  to  deny  that  something 
of  this  sort  existed  in  the  case  of  Corneille,  for 
as  we  read  his  works,  while,  we  constantly  re- 
ceive the  already  mentioned  impression  of  seri- 
ousness and  severity,  there  is  another  impression 
that  is  sometimes  mingled  with  these  and  sug- 
gests the  disquieting  presence  of  men  firmly 
fixed  and  rooted  in  an  ideal.  When  faced  with 
his  predilection  for  deliberation  and  resolution, 
the  figure  of  the  Aristophanic  Philocleon  some- 
times returns  to  the  memory.  This  Philocleon 
was  a  "  philoheliast,"  that  is  to  say  he  was  the 
victim  of  a  mania  for  judging,  tov  BiKd^ew,     His 


CORNELIAN    TRAGEDY       393 

son  locked  him  up,  but  he  climbed  out  of  win- 
dow, in  order  to  hasten  to  the  tribunal  and 
satisfy  his  vital  need  of  administering  justice! 

The  consequences  of  this  excess  of  practical 
passionality  in  the  case  of  Corneille,  of  its  ex- 
clusive domination  in  him,  was  that  he  either 
did  not  love  or  refused  to  allow  himself  to  love 
anything  else  in  the  world,  and  lost  interest  in 
all  the  rest  of  life.     He  did  not  surpass  it 
ideally,  in  which  case  he  would  have  remained 
trembling  and  living  in  its  presence,  although  it 
was  combated  and  suppressed,  but  he  drove  it 
out  or  cut  it  off  altogether.     He  acted  as  one, 
who  for  the  love  of  the  human  body,  should 
eliminate  from  his  picture,  landscape,  sky,  air, 
the  background  of  the  picture,  upon  and  from 
which  the  figure  rises  and  with  which  it  is  con- 
nected, although  separated  from  it  in  relief,  and 
should  limit  himself  to  the  delineation  of  bodies 
and    attitudes    of   bodies.     Corneille,    having 
abolished  all  other  forms  of  life,  found  nothing 
before  him  but  a  series  of  situations  for  delib- 
eration, vigorously  felt,  warmly  expressed,  sung 
with  full  voice,  and  illustrated  with  energetic 
yet  becoming  gestures. 

What  tragedy,  what  drama,  what  represen- 
tation, could  emerge  from  such  a  limitation  of 


394       CORNELIAN   TRAGEDY 

volitional  attitudes?  How  could  the  various 
tonalities  and  affections  and  so  the  various  per- 
sonages, unite  and  harmonise  among  them- 
selves with  all  their  shades  and  gradations? 
The  bridge  that  should  give  passage  to  this  full 
and  complete  representation  was  wanting  or 
had  been  destroyed.  All  that  was  possible  was 
a  suite  of  deliberative  lyrics,  of  ^magnificent  per- 
orations, of  lofty  sentiments,  sometimes  stand- 
ing alone,  sometimes  also  taking  the  form  of  a 
duet  or  a  dialogue,  a  theory  of  statues,  draped 
in  solemn  attitudes,  of  enormous  figures,  rigid 
and  similar  as  Byzantine  mosaics.  Here  and 
there  a  writer  such  as  Lanson  has  to  some  ex- 
tent had  an  inkling  of  this  intrinsic  impossibil- 
ity when,  writing  about  the  Nicomede,  he  re- 
marked that  Corneille  **  in  his  pride  at  having 
founded  a  new  kind  of  tragedy,  without  pity  or 
terror,  and  having  admiration  as  its  motive, 
did  not  perceive  that  he  was  founding  it  upon 
a  void;  because  the  tragedy  will  be  the  less  dra- 
matic, the  purer  is  the  will,  since  it  is  defeats  or 
semi-defeats  that  are  dramatic,  the  slow,  diffi- 
cult victories  of  the  will,  incessant  combats." 
But  he  held  on  the  other  hand  that  Corneille 
had  once  constructed,  in  Nicomede,  a  perfect 
tragedy,  on  the  single  datum  of  the  pure  will, 


CORNELIAN   TRAGEDY       395 

par  un  coup  de  genie ;  but  this  was  the  only  one 
that  ever  could  be  written,  the  reason  that  it 
could  not  be  repeated  being  "  that  all  the  works 
of  Corneille  are  dramatic,  precisely  to  the 
extent  that  the  will  falls  short  in  them  of  per- 
fection and  in  virtue  of  the  elements  that  sep- 
arate it  from  them.*'  The  beauty,  he  says,  of 
the  Cid,  of  Polyeucte  and  of  Cinna,  "  consists 
in  what  they  contain  of  passion,  cooperating 
with  and  striving  against  the  will  of  the 
heroes."  But  "  strokes  of  genius "  are  not 
miracles  and  they  do  not  make  the  impossible 
possible  and  the  other  dramas  of  Corneille  that 
we  have  mentioned  do  not  differ  substantially 
from  the  Nicomede,  for  in  them  passionate  ele- 
ments are  intruded  and  felt  to  be  out  of  har- 
mony (as  in  the  Cid) ,  or  they  are  apparent  and 
conventional. 

Apparent  and  conventional:  because  the  lack 
of  the  bridge  for  crossing  over  forbade  Cor- 
neille to  construct  poetically  out  of  volitional 
situations  representations  of  life,  to  which  they 
did  not  of  themselves  lead.  It  did  not  how- 
ever prevent  another  kind  of  construction, 
which  may  be  called  intellectualistic  or  practi- 
cal He  deduced  other  situations  and  other 
antitheses   from  the  volitional  situations  and 


396       CORNELIAN    TRAGEDY 

their  antitheses  that  he  had  conceived,  and  thus 
he  formed  a  sort  of  semblance  of  the  represent- 
ation of  life.  At  the  same  time  he  reduced  it  to 
the  dimensions  of  the  drama  that  he  was  orig- 
inating mentally,  partly  through  study  of  the 
ancients  and  above  all  Seneca,  partly  from  the 
Italian  writers  of  tragedy  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, partly  from  that  of  the  Spanish  writers 
and  of  his  French  predecessors,  but  not  without 
consulting,  following  or  modifying  the  French 
and  Italian  casuists  and  regulating  the  whole 
with  his  own  sense  for  theatrical  effect  and  for 
the  forms  of  it  likely  to  suit  the  taste  of  the 
French  public  of  his  day.     , 

This  structure  of  tragedy,  with  its  antithe- 
ses and  parallelisms,  its  expedients  for  acceler- 
ating and  arresting  and  terminating  the  action 
has  been  qualified  with  praise  or  blame  as  pos- 
sessing great  **  logical "  perfection.  Logic, 
however,  which  is  the  life  of  thought,  has  no- 
thing to  do  with  the  balancing  and  counter- 
balancing of  mechanical  weights,  whose  life  lies 
outside  them,  in  the  head  and  in  the  hand  that 
has  constructed  and  set  them  in  motion.  It  has 
been  also  compared  to  architecture  and  to  the 
admirable  proportions  of  the  Italian  art  of  the 
Renaissance.     But  here  too,  we  must  suspect 


CORNELIAN   TRAGEDY       397 

that  the  true  meaning  of  the  works  thus  char- 
acterised   escapes    us,    for    attention    is    paid 
only  to  the  external  appearance  of  things,  in 
so  far  as  it  can  be  expressed  in  mathematical 
terms.     We  have  said  exactly  the  same  thing, 
without  having  recourse  to  logic  or  to  archi- 
tecture, when  we  noted  that  the  structure  of 
Corneille*s  tragedies  did  not  derive  from  within, 
that  is,  from  his  true  poetical  inspiration,  but 
rose  up  beside  it,  and  was  due  to  the  unconscious 
practical  need  of  making  a  canvas  or  a  frame 
upon  which  to  stretch  the  series  of  volitional 
situations  desired  by  the  imagination  of  the 
poet.     Thus  it  was  poetically  a  cold,  incoher- 
ent, absurd  thing,  but  practically  rational  and 
coherent,  like  every  "  mechanism."     This  word 
is  not  pronounced  here  for  the  first  time  owing 
to  our  irreverence,  but  is  to  be  found  among 
those  who  have  written  about  Corneille  and 
have  felt  themselves  unable  to  refrain  from  re- 
ferring to  his  "  mecanique  theatrale ''  and  to 
the  **  sy Sterne  ferme*'  of  his  tragedies,  where 
**  s'opere  par  tin  jeu  visible  de  forces,  la  produc- 
tion d'lin  etat  defimtif  appele  denouement," 

When  this  has  been  stated,  it  is  easy  to  see 
that  anyone  who  examines  this  assemblage  of 
thoughts  and  phrases  with  the  expectation  of 


398       CORNELIAN   TRAGEDY 


l« 


finding  there  a  soft,  rich,  sensuous  and  passion- 
ate representation  of  life,  full  of  throbs,  be- 
dewed with  tears,  shot  through  with  troubles 
and  enjoyments,  such  as  are  to  be  found  in 
Shakespearean  drama  and  also  in  Sophoclean 
tragedy,  is  disappointed,  and  thereupon  de- 
scribes Corneille's  art  as  false,  whereas  he 
should  perhaps  describe  his  own  expectation  as 
false.  But  it  is  strange  to  find,  as  counterpoise 
to  that  delusion,  the  attempt  to  demonstrate 
that  the  apparatus  is  not  an  apparatus,  but  flesh 
and  blood,  that  the  frame  is  not  a  frame  but  a 
picture,  like  one  of  Titian's  or  Rembrandt's, 
and  now  setting  comparisons  aside,  that  the 
pseudo-tragedy  and  the  pseudo-drama  of  Cor- 
neille  is  pure  drama  or  tragedy,  that  his  intel- 
lectualistic  deductions,  his  practical  devices,  are 
lyrical  motives  and  express  the  truth  of  the 
human  heart.  Such,  however,  is  the  wrong- 
headedness  of  the  criticisms  that  we  have  re- 
viewed above.  The  mode  of  procedure  is  to 
deny  what  is  evident,  for  example  that  Cor- 
neille  argues  through  the  mouths  of  his  char- 
acters, instead  of  expressing  and  setting  in 
action  his  own  mode  of  feeling,  in  such  a  w^y  as 
the  situations  would  require,  were  they  poetic- 
ally  treated.     Faguet   answers   Voltaire's  re- 


CORNELIAN   TRAGEDY       399 

marks  upon  the  famous  couplet  of  Rodogune: 
"  //  est  des  noeuds  secrets,  il  est  des  sympathies 
.  .  ."  to  the  effect  that  **  the  poet  is  always 
himself  talking  and  that  passion  does  not  thus 
express  itself,"  by  saying  that  people  are  ac- 
customed to  express  themselves  in  this  way, 
that  is  to  say,  in  the  form  of  general  ideas, 
when  they  are  calm,  as  though  the  question 
could  be  settled  with  an  appeal  to  the  reality 
of  ordinary  life,  whereas  on  the  contrary  it  is 
a  question  of  poeticity,  that  is  to  say,  of  the 
tragic  situation,  which  by  its  own  nature,  ex- 
cludes couplets  in  certain  cases,  however  well 
turned  they  be. 

Yet  the  very  same  critics,  who  are  thus  guilty 
of  sophistry  in  their  attempts  to  defend  Cor- 
neille,  are  capable  of  observing  on  another  oc- 
casion that  if  not  all,  at  any  rate  many  or  sev- 
eral of  Corneille's  tragedies  are  "  melodramas," 
and  that  the  author  tended  more  and  more  to 
melodrama,  in  the  course  of  his  development 
or  decadence,  as  we  may  like  to  call  it.  Per- 
haps in  so  saying,  they  are  making  a  careless 
use  of  the  word  **  melodrama,"  and  mean  by 
it  a  drama  of  intrigue,  of  surprises,  of  shocks 
and  of  recognitions.  If  on  the  contrary  they 
have  employed  it  in  its  true  sense,  or  if  their 


/ 


1^ 


400       CORNELIAN   TRAGEDY 

tongue  has  been  instinctively  more  correct  than 
their  thought,  since  **  melodrama  '*  means  pre- 
cisely a  melodrama,  that  does  not  exist  for  it- 
self, but  for  the  music,  and  is  a  canvas  or  frame, 
they  have  again  declared  the  extrinsic  character 
of  the  Cornelian  tragedy. 

Another  confirmation  of  this  character  of  the 
tragedies  is  to  be  found  in  that  suspicion  of 
comicality,  which  lurks  so  frequently  in  the 
background  as  we  read  them,  and  occasionally 
makes  itself  clearly  audible  in  the  course  of 
development  of  their  pseudo-tragic  action.  It 
has  been  asked  whether  the  Cid  were  a  tragedy 
or  a  comedy  and  inquiry  has  resulted  in  no  sat- 
isfactory answer  being  arrived  at,  because  in- 
voluntary comicality  is  present  there,  akin  to 
what  is  to  be  found  in  certain  of  the  pompous 
and  emphatic  melodramas  of  Metastasio.  It 
is  true  that  Don  Diego's  reply  to  the  king  has 
been  cited  as  sublime,  when  he  does  not  wish 
the  new  duel  to  take  place  at  once,  in  order  that 
the  Cid  may  have  a  little  rest,  after  the  great 
battle  that  he  has  won  against  the  Moors,  which 
he  has  described  triumphantly  and  at  great 
length:  "  Rodrigue  a  pris  haleine  en  vous  la  ra- 
contant! ''  But  are  we  then  to  regard  as  sinful 
the  smile  that  gradually  dawns  upon  the  lips  of 


CORNELIAN    TRAGEDY       401 

those  who  are  not  pledged  to  admire  at  all 
costs?     And  consider  the  case  of  the  furious 
Emilia,  who  at  the  end  of  the  Cinna  gets  rid  in 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  of  all  the  convictions 
anchored  in  her  breast,   of  that  hatred  that 
burned  her  up,  much  in  the  same  manner  as  a 
stomach-ache    disappears   upon   the   use   of   a 
sedative,  and  declares  that  she  has  all  of  a  sud- 
den become  the  exact  opposite  of  what  she  was 
previously?     **  Ma  haine  va  mourir,  que   'fai 
cru  immortelle;  elle  est  morte  et  ce  coeiir  de- 
vient  sujet  fidele,  Et  prenant  desormais  cette 
haine  en  horreur,  Uardeur  de  vous  servir  sue- 
cede  a  sa  fureurJ*     And  Curiace,  who  finds 
himself  in  such  a  situation  as  to  deliver  the  fol- 
lowing madrigal  to  his  betrothed:  ** D^Albe 
avec  mon  amour  'faccordais  la  querelle;  ]e  sou- 
pirais  pour  vous,  en  combattant  pour  elle;  Et  s^il 
fallait  encor  que  Pon  en  vtnt  aux  coups,  Je  com- 
bat trais  pour  elle  en  soupirant  pour  vous  J*  f 
But  we  will  not  insist  upon  this  descent  into  the 
comic,  for  it  is  not  always  to  be  avoided,  being 
a  natural  effect  of  the  **  mechanicity  "  of  the 
Cornelian  drama  and  is  for  the  rest  in  con- 
formity with   the   theory  which   explains  the 
comic  as  "  Vautomatisme  installe  dans  la  vie  et 
imitant  la  vie''   (Bergson). 


402       CORNELIAN   TRAGEDY 

Another  form  of  the  comic,  discoverable  in 
him,  must  also  be  insisted  upon;  but  this  is  not 
involuntary  and  blameworthy,  but  coherent  and 
praiseworthy.  The  form  in  question  is  that 
which  led  to  the  comedy  of  character  and  of 
costume,  to  psychological  and  political  comedy. 
Brunetiere  even  said  between  jest  and  earnest: 
**  The  Cidy  Horace^  Cinna  and  Polyeticte,  give 
me  much  trouble.  Were  it  not  for  these  four, 
I  should  say  that  Corneille  is  fundamentally 
and  above  all  a  comic  poet,  and  an  excellent 
comic  poet;  and  this  is  perfectly  true;  but  how 
are  we  to  say  it,  when  the  Cid,  Horace,  Cinna 
and  Polyeucte  are  there?  These  four  trage- 
dies embarrass  me  exceedingly!  "  And  he  pro- 
ceeds to  note  and  illustrate  the  "  family  scenes  " 
scattered  among  his  tragedies,  the  prosaic 
and  conversational  phraseology,  which  so  dis- 
pleased Voltaire,  and  the  complete  absence  in 
some  of  them  of  tragic  quality,  even  of  the  ex- 
ternal sort,  that  is,  scenes  of  blood  and  death, 
and  the  prevalence  of  the  ethical  over  the  pa- 
thetic representation,  in  the  manner  of  the 
comedy  of  Menander  and  of  Terence.  De- 
spite all  this,  his  definition  of  Corneille  as  a 
comic  poet  will  be  admired  as  acute  and  in- 
genious, but  will  never  carry  conviction  as  being 


CORNELIAN  TRAGEDY      403 

true :  none  of  those  tragedies  is  a  comedy,  be- 
cause none  is  accentuated  in  that  manner.  For 
the  same  reason  that  Corneille  could  not  attain 
to  the  poetical  representation  of  life,  because 
he  was  not  able  to  pass  beyond  the  one-sided- 
ness  of  his  ideal,  by  merging  it  in  the  fulness 
of  things,  he  was  unable  to  present  the  comic 
or  ethical  side  of  them,  because  he  did  not  pass 
beyond  the  spectacle  of  life  and  so  of  his  ideal, 
by  viewing  it  sub  specie  intellectus,  in  its  ex- 
ternal and  internal  limitations.  The  attempt 
to  do  so  in  the  Alidor  of  the  Place  Royale  had 
not  been  successful,  and  it  never  was  successful, 
even  assuming  that  he  attempted  it.  He  did 
not  indeed  attempt  it,  and  the  ethos  that  so 
often  took  the  place  of  the  pathos  in  the  struc- 
ture of  his  tragedies,  was  itself  a  natural  con- 
sequence of  their  mechanicity.  Owing  to  this, 
when  they  had  lost  the  guidance  of  the  initial 
poetic  motive,  they  often  fluctuated  between 
emphasis  and  cold  observation,  between  elo- 
quence and  prose,  between  stylisation  of  the 
characters  and  certain  realistic  determinations. 
This  hybridism,  which  has  sometimes  led  to 
the  belittling  of  Corneille  to  the  level  of  a  poet 
of  observation  and  of  comicality,  has  more 
often  led,  from  another  point  of  view,  to  his 


w 


404       CORNELIAN   TRAGEDY 

being  increased  in  stature  and  importance,  to 
his  being  belauded  and  acclaimed  as  possessing 
"  romantic  tendencies,"  or  as  a  **  French  Shake- 
speare," although  but  **  a  Shakespeare  in  tram- 
mels." There  is  really  nothing  whatever  in 
him  of  the  romantic,  in  the  conception,  that  is 
to  say,  and  in  the  sentiment  of  life;  and  there 
is  less  than  nothing  in  him  of  Shakespeare, 
whose  work  had  its  origins  in  a  far  wider  and 
certainly  a  very  different  sphere  of  spiritual 
interests.  But  since  *'  romanticism "  and 
"  Shakespeare "  perhaps  stand  here  simply 
for  poetry,  it  must  be  admitted  that  he  is  a 
poet,  who  does  not  explain  himself  fully,  or  ex- 
plains himself  badly,  without  the  liberty,  the 
sympathy,  the  abandonment  of  self  necessary 
for  poetry.  He  harnesses  his  inspiration  to  an 
apparatus  of  actions  and  reactions,  of  paral- 
lelisms and  of  conventions,  which  may  be  well 
described  as  "  trammels,"  when  compared  with 
poetry. 

But  they  are  in  any  case  trammels  which  he 
sets  in  his  own  way,  trammels  which  he  creates 
and  fixes  in  his  soul  and  are  not  imposed  upon 
him  by  the  rules,  conventions  and  usages,  which 
were  in  vogue  at  the  time  he  wrote,  as  is  er- 
roneously maintained,   coupled  with  lamenta- 


CORNELIAN   TRAGEDY       405 

tions  as  to  the  unfavorable  period  for  the  writ- 
ing of  poetry,  which  fell  to  his  lot.  What  poet 
can  be  trammeled  from  without?  The  poet 
sets  such  obstacles  aside,  or  he  passes  through 
them,  or  he  goes  round  them,  or  he  feigns  to 
bow  to  them,  or  he  does  bow  to  them,  but  only 
in  secondary  matters  that  are  almost  indiffer- 
ent. For  this  reason,  disputes  and  doctrines 
as  to  the  three  unities,  as  to  the  characters  of 
tragedy,  as  to  the  manner  of  obtaining  the 
catharsis  or  purgation,  have  considerable  im- 
portance for  anyone  investigating  the  history  of 
aesthetic  and  critical  ideas,  of  their  formation, 
growth  and  progress,  by  means  of  struggles 
that  seem  to  us  now  to  be  ridiculous,  though 
they  were  once  serious;  but  they  have  no  im- 
portance whatever  as  an  element  in  the  judg- 
ment of  a  poem.  Corneille  did  not  rebel 
against  the  so-called  rules,  because  he  did  not 
feel  any  need  for  rebellion;  he  accepted  or  ac- 
customed himself  to  them,  because,  having 
treated  tragedy  mechanically,  it  suited  him,  or 
did  him  no  harm,  to  take  heed  of  the  mechan- 
ical rules,  laid  down  by  custom  and  literary  and 
theatrical  precepts. 

For  this   reason,   his  method  of  theatrical 
composition  was  not  only  susceptible  of  being 


4o6       CORNELIAN   TRAGEDY 

tolerated,  but  even  of  pleasing  and  receiving  the 
praise,  the  applause  and  the  admiration  of  the 
contemporary  public,  which  did  not  seek  in 
them  the  joy  of  poetic  rapture,  but  a  different 
and  more  or  less  refined  pleasure,  answering  to 
its  spiritual  needs  and  aspirations.  It  could 
later  and  can  now  prove  insupportable,  because 
the  delight  of  a  certain  period  in  dexterity,  ex- 
pedients and  clever  devices,  in  the  fine  phrases 
of  the  courtier,  in  certain  actions  that  were  the 
fashion,  in  the  gallantries  of  pastoral  and  he- 
roic romance,  in  epigrams,  antitheses  and  mad- 
rigals, are  no  longer  our  delights.  Passionate 
or  realistic  art,  as  it  is  called,  flourishes  every- 
where, in  place  of  the  old  scholastic,  academic 
and  court  models.  But  for  us,  everything  that 
concerns  Corneille's  composition  and  the  tech- 
nique of  his  work  is  indifferent,  since  we  are 
viewing  the  problem  from  the  point  of  view  of 
poetry.  We  shall  not  therefore  busy  ourselves 
with  discriminating  those  parts  of  it  that  are 
well  from  those  that  are  ill  put  together,  nor 
his  clever  from  his  unsuccessful  expedients,  his 
well-constructed  **  scenes  "  from  those  that  suf- 
fer from  padding,  his  "  acts  "  that  run  smoothly 
from  those  that  drag,  the  more  from  the 
less  happy  **  endings,"  as  is  the  habit  of  those 


ti 


m 


CORNELIAN   TRAGEDY       407 

critics,  who  nourish  a  superstitious  admiration 
for  what  Flaubert  would  have  called  "  V arcane 
theatraV  We  care  nothing  for  the  canvas, 
but  only  for  what  of  embroidery  in  the  shape 
of  poetry  there  is  upon  it. 


M 


THE   POETRY 


409 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  POETRY  OF  CORNEILLE 

The  poetry  of  Corneille,  or  what  of  poetry 
there  is  in  him,  is  all  to  be  found  in  the  lyrical 
quality  of  the  volitional  situations,  in  those  de- 
bates, remarks,  solemn  professions  of  faith,  en- 
ergetic assertions  of  the  will,  in  that  superb 
admiration  for  one's  own  personal,  unshakable 
firmness.  Here  it  is  that  we  must  seek  it,  not 
in  the  development  of  the  dramatic  action  or 
in  the  character  of  the  individual  personages. 
For  it  is  only  an  affection  for  life,  that  is  to  say, 
penetration  of  it  in  all  its  manifestations,  which 
Is  capable  of  generating  those  beings,  so  warm 
with  passion,  who  insinuate  themselves  into  us 
and  take  possession  of  our  imagination,  who 
grow  in  it  and  eventually  become  so  familiar  to 
us  that  we  seem  to  have  really  met  them:  the 
creations  of  Dante,  of  Shakespeare,  or  of 
Goethe.  Certainly,  Corneille's  lyricism,  which 
seems  to  be  exclusive  and  one-sided,  would  not 
be  lyricism  and  poetry,  if  it  were  really  always 

408 


exclusive  and  one-sided  and  although  it  cannot 
give  us  drama  in  the  sense  we  have  described, 
owing  to  its  driving  away  the  other  passions, 
yet  it  does  not  succeed  in  doing  so  in  such  a 
complete  and  radical  manner  that  we  fail  to 
perceive  their  fermentation,  however  remote, 
in  those  severe  and  vigorous  assertions  of  the 
will.  The  loftiness  itself  of  the  rhythm  indi- 
cates the  high  standard  of  the  vital  effort,  which 
it  represents  and  expresses.  To  continue  the 
illustration  above  initiated,  Corneille's  situa- 
tions may  be  drawings  rather  than  pictures,  or 
pictures  in  design  rather  than  in  colour;  but 
these  pictures  also  possess  their  own  qualities 
as  pictures,  they  too  are  works  of  love  and  must 
not  be  confounded  with  drawings  directed  to 
intellectual  ends,  with  illustration  of  real  things, 
or  concepts  with  prosaic  designs. 

And  indeed  everyone  has  always  sought  and 
seeks  the  flower  of  the  spirit  of  Corneille,  the 
beauty  of  his  work,  in  single  situations,  or 
"  places."  The  commentators  who  busy  them- 
selves with  the  exposition  and  the  degustation 
of  his  works  have  but  slight  material  for  analy- 
sis of  the  sort  that  is  employed  by  them  in  the 
case  of  other  poets,  whose  fundamental  poetic  " 
motive  furnishes  a  basis  for  the  rethinking  of 


4IO 


THE   POETRY 


THE   POETRY 


411 


the  characters  and  of  their  actions.  Here  on 
the  contrary  they  feel  themselves  set  free  from 
an  obstruction,  when  they  pass  to  the  single  pas- 
sages, and  at  once  declare  with  Faguet,  one  of 
the  latest :  "  II  y  a  de  beaux  vers  a  citer"  The 
actors  too,  who  attempt  to  interpret  his  trage- 
dies in  the  realistic  romantic  manner,  fail  to  con- 
vince, while  those  succeed  on  the  other  hand 
who  deliver  them  in  a  somewhat  formal  style. 
In  thus  listening  to  the  intoned  declamations  of 
the  monologues,  exhortations,  invectives,  senti- 
ments and  couplets,  one  feels  oneself  trans- 
planted into  a  superior  sphere,  exactly  as  hap- 
pens with  singing  and  music. 

Corneille's  characters  are  not  to  be  laid  hold 
of  in  their  full  and  corporate  being.  It  is 
but  rarely  that  they  allow  us  a  glimpse  of  their 
human  countenance,  or  permit  us  to  catch  some 
cry  of  scorn,  and  then  rapidly  withdraw  them- 
selves into  the  abstract  so  completely  that  we 
do  not  succeed  in  taking  hold  of  even  a  fold  of 
their  fleeting  robes,  although  a  long-enduring 
echo  of  their  lightning-like  speech  remains  in 
the  soul.  The  old  father  of  the  Horatii 
strengthens  his  sons  in  their  conflict  between 
family  affection  and  their  imperious  duty  to 
their  country,  with  the  maxim:  ^* Faites  voire 


devoir  et  laissez  faire  aux  DieuxJ^  The  youth- 
ful Curiace  murmurs  with  tears  in  his  voice,  to 
the  youthful  Horace,  his  friend  and  brother- 
in-law  :  ''  Je  vous  connais  encore  et  c'est  ce  qui 
me  tue**  but  Horace  is  as  inflexible  as  a  syllo- 
gism, having  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  the 
posts  assigned  to  them  in  the  feud  between 
Rome  and  Alba  have  made  enemies  of  them, 
and  therefore  that  they  must  not  know  one  an- 
other in  future.  Curiace,  when  at  last  he  has 
become  bitterly  resigned  to  their  irremediable 
separation  and  hostility,  exclaims:  "  Telle  est 
notre  misere  .  .  ." — Emilia,  another  being 
with  nerves  like  steel  springs,  reveals  her  proud 
soul  in  a  single  phrase;  when  Maximus  sug- 
gests flight  to  her,  she  exclaims  as  she  faces 
him,  in  a  cry  that  is  like  a  blow :  "  Tu  oses 
m* aimer  et  tu  rC  oses  mourirf  "  She  is  perhaps 
more  deeply  wounded  here  in  her  pride  as  a 
woman,  who  fails  to  receive  the  tribute  of  he- 
roism, which  she  expects,  than  in  her  moral  sen- 
timent. The  noble  Surena  holds  it  an  easy 
thing,  a  thing  of  small  moment,  to  give  his  life 
for  his  lady :  he  wishes  "  toujours  aimer,  tou- 
jour s  souffrir,  toujours  mourirf";  and  Anti- 
ochus,  in  Rodogune,  when  he  discovers  that  he 
is  surrounded  with  ambushes,  decides  to  die  and 


412 


THE   POETRY 


THE   POETRY 


413 


;* 


in  doing  so  directs  his  thought  to  the  sad  shade 
of  his  brother,  who  has  been  slain  in  a  like  man- 
ner: ''  Cher  frere,  c*est  pour  mot  le  chemin  du 
trepas  .  .  .**;  and  Titus  feels  himself  pene- 
trated with  the  melancholy  of  the  fleeting  hour, 
the  sense  of  human  fragility: 

Oui,  Flavian,  c'est  affaire  a  mourir. 
La  vie  est  peu  de  chose ;  et  tot  ou  tard  qu*importe 
Qu'un  tra'itre  me  Tarrache,  ou  que  I'agc  Temporte? 
Nous  mourrons  a  toute  heure ;  et  dans  le  plus  doux  sort 
Chaque  instant  de  la  vie  est  un  pas  vers  la  mort. 

Words  expressive  of  death  are  always  those 
whose  accent  is  clearest  and  whose  resonance  is 
the  most  profound  with  Corneille.  It  is  per- 
haps as  well  to  leave  the  Mot  of  Medea  and 
the  Qu^il  mourrait  of  the  old  Horace  to  the 
admirative  raptures  of  the  rhetoricians ;  but  let 
us  repeat  to  ourselves  those  words  of  the 
sister  of  Heraclius  (in  the  Heraclius),  morti- 
fied by  fate,  ever  at  the  point  of  death  and  ever 
ready  to  die: 

Mais  a  d*autres  pensers  il  me  faut  recourir: 

II  n'est  plus  temps  d'aimer  alors  qu'il  faut  mourir.  .  .  . 

And  again : 

Crois-tu  que  sur  la  foi  de  tes  fausses  promesses 
Mon  ame  ose  descend  re  a  de  telles  bassesses? 


Prends  mon  sang  pour  le  sien;  mais,  s'il  y  faut  mon 

coeur, 
Perisse  Heraclius  avec  sa  triste  soeur! 

And  when  she  stays  the  hand  of  the  menacing 
tyrant  suddenly  and  with  a  word : 

.  .  .  Ne  menace  point,  je  suis  prete  a  mourir. 

Or,    finally,    those    sweetest   words    of    all, 
spoken  by  Eurydice  in  the  Surena: 

Non,  je  ne  pleure  pas,  madame,  mais  je  meurs. 

These  dying  words  form  as  it  were  the  ex- 
treme points  of  the  resolute  will,  of  the  will, 
fierce  usque  ad  mortem.  But  the  others,  in 
which  the  volitional  situations  are  fixed  and  de- 
veloped and  determination  to  pursue  a  certain 
course  is  asserted,  are,  as  we  have  said,  the 
proper  and  normal  expression  of  the  poetry  of 
Corneille,  which  can  be  fully  enjoyed,  provided 
that  we  do  not  insist  upon  asking  whether  they 
are  appropriate  in  the  mouths  of  the  person- 
ages, who  should  act  and  not  analyse  and  define 
themselves,  or  whether  they  are  or  are  not 
necessary  for  the  development  of  the  drama. 
Their  poetry  consists  of  just  that  analysis,  that 
passionate  self-definition,  that  arranging  of  the 
folds  of  their  own  decorous  robes,  that  sculptur- 
ing of  their  own  statues. 


I 


414 


THE   POETRY 


THE   POETRY 


415 


Let  us  examine  a  few  examples  of  it,  taking 
them  from  the  least  known  and  the  least  praised 
tragedies  of  Corneille,  for  it  is  perhaps  time  to 
have  done  with  the  so-called  decadence  or  ex- 
haustion of  Corneille,  with  his  second-child- 
hood (according  to  which,  some  would  main- 
tain that  he  returned  to  his  boyish,  pre-Cidian 
period  in  his  maturity),  and  with  the  excessive 
and  to  no  small  extent  affected  and  conventional 
exaltation  of  the  famous  square  block  of  stone 
representing  the  four  faces  of  honour  (the 
Cid)y  of  patriotism  (Horace),  of  generosity 
(Cinna)  and  of  sanctity  {Polyeucte).  There 
is  often  in  those  four  most  popular  tragedies 
a  certain  pomposity,  an  emphasis,  an  appa- 
ratus, a  rhetorical  colouring,  which  Corneille 
gradually  did  away  with  in  himself,  in  or- 
der to  make  himself  ever  more  nude,  with  the 
austere  nudity  of  the  spirit.  It  was  perhaps 
not  only  constancy  and  coherence  of  logical  de- 
velopment, but  progress  of  art  on  the  road  to 
its  own  perfection,  which  counselled  him  to 
abandon  too  pathetic  subjects.  In  any  case, 
unless  we  wish  to  turn  the  traditional  judgment 
upside  down,  we  must  insist  that  those  four 
tragedies,  like  those  that  followed  them,  are 
not  to  be  read  by  the  lover  of  poetry  otherwise 


than  in  an  anthological  manner,  that  is  to  say, 
selecting  the  fine  passages  where  they  are  to 
be  found,  and  these  occur  in  no  less  number 
and  in  beauty  at  least  equal  in  the  other  trage- 
dies also,  some  of  which  are  more  and  some  less 
theatrically  effective. 

Pulcherie  is  the  last  and  one  of  the  most  mar- 
vellous Cornelian  condensations  of  force  in  de- 
liberation. She  thus  manifests  her  mode  of 
feeling  to  the  youthful  Leon  whom  she  loves : 

Je  vous  aime,  Leon,  et  n'en  fais  point  mystere: 
Des  feux  tels  que  les  miens  n'ont  rien  qu'il  faille  taire. 
Je  vous  aime,  et  non  point  de  cette  folle  ardeur 
Que  les  yeux  eblouis  font  maitresse  du  coeur; 
Non  d'un  amour  conqu  par  les  sens  en  tumulte, 
A  qui  Tame  applaudit  sans  qu'elle  se  consulte, 
Et  qui,  ne  concevant  que  d'aveugles  desires, 
Languit  dans  les  faveurs  et  meurt  dans  les  plaisirs: 
Ma  passion  pour  vous  genereuse  et  solide, 
A  la  vertu  pour  ame  et  la  raison  pour  guide, 
La  gloirc  pour  objet  et  veut,  sous  votre  loi, 
Mettre  en  ce  jour  illustre  et  Tunivers  et  moi. 

Here  we  have  clearly  the  lyricism  of  a  soul 
which  has  achieved  complete  possession  of  it- 
self, of  a  soul  overflowing  with  affections,  but 
knowing  which  among  them  are  superior  and 
which  inferior,  and  has  learned  how  to  admin- 
ister and  how  to  rule  itself,  steering  the  ship 


4i6 


THE   POETRY 


with  a  steady  and  experienced  hand  through 
treacherous  seas,  and  feeling  its  own  nobility 
to  lie  in  just  what  others  would  call  coldness 
and  lack  of  humanity.     Note  the  expressions 
''  folle  ardeur  "  and  ''  sens  en  tumulte/'  and  the 
contempt,  not  to  say  the  disgust,  with  which  they 
are  uttered  and  the  hell  that  is  pointed  out  as 
lying  in  that  soul  which  allows  itself  to  be  car- 
ried away  ''  sans  qu'  elle  se  consulted'    Note  too 
the  vision  of  the  sad  effeminacy  of  those  affec- 
tions, so  blind  and  so  egotistic,  which  consume 
and  corrupt  themselves  in  themselves,  and  how 
he  enhances  it  by  contrast  with  her  own  rational 
passion,  so  ''  genereuse  et  solide/'  with  those 
solemn  words   of   '' vertu/'   of   '' raison/'   of 
"  gloire/'  and  the  final  apotheosis,  which  lays 
at  the  feet  of  the  man  she  loves  and  loves 
worthily,  her  person  and  the  whole  world. 

And  Pulcherie,  when  she  has  been  elected 
empress,  again  takes  counsel  with  herself  and 
recognises  that  this  love  of  hers  for  Leon  is 
still  inferior,  not  yet  sufficiently  pure,  and  de- 
cides to  slay  it,  in  order  that  it  may  live  again 
as  something  different,  as  something  purely 
rational : 

Leon  seul  est  ma  joie,  il  est  mon  seul  desir; 

Je  n'en  puis  choisir  d'autre,  et  je  n'ose  le  choisir: 


THE   POETRY  417 

Depuis  trois  ans  unie  a  cette  chere  idee, 
J*en  ai  Tame  a  toute  heure  en  tous  lieux  obsedee; 
Rien  n'en  detachera  mon  coeur  que  le  trepas, 
Encore  apres  ma  mort  n'en  repondrai-je  pas, 
Et  si  dans  le  tombeau  le  del  permet  qu'on  aime, 
Dans  le  fond  du  tombeau  je  I'aimerai  de  meme. 
Trone  qui  m'eblouis,  titres  qui  me  flattez, 
Pourriez-vous  me  valoir  ce  que  vous  me  coutez? 
Et  de  tout  votre  orgueil  la  pompe  la  plus  haute 
A-t-elle  un  bien  egal  a  celui  qu*elle  m'ote? 

She  thus  concedes  to  human  frailty  the  relief  of 
a  lament,  such  a  lament  as  can  issue  from  her 
lips,  full  of  strength  and  charged  with  resolu- 
tion  in  passion,  but  at  the  same  time  noble, 
measured  and  dignified.  After  this,  she  fol- 
lows the  direction  of  her  will  with  inexorable 
firmness.  Leon  shall  not  be  her  spouse,  be- 
cause her  choice  must  be  and  seem  to  be  dic- 
tated by  the  sole  good  of  the  State,  and  fall 
upon  a  man  whom  she  will  not  love  with  love, 
but  who  will  be  for  Rome  an  emperor  to  be 
feared  and  respected.  A  conflict  had  been  en- 
gaged between  one  part  of  herself  and  another, 
between  the  whole  and  a  part,  and  she  has  again 
subjected  the  part  to  the  whole  and  has  assigned 
to  it  its  duty,  that  of  obedience. 

Je-suis  imperatrice  et  j'etais  Pulcherie. 

De  ce  trone,  ennemi  de  mes  plus  doux  souhaits, 


m 


4i8 


THE   POETRY 


TiHE   POETRY 


419 


Je  regarde  Tamour  comme  un  de  mes  sujets; 

Je  veux  que  le  respect  qu'il  doit  a  ma  couronne 

Repousse  Tattentat  qu*il  fait  sur  ma  personne; 

Je  veux  qu*il  m*obeisse,  au  lieu  de  me  trahir; 

Je  veux  qu*il  donne  a  tous  Texemple  d*obeir; 

Et,  jalouse  deja  de  mon  pouvoir  supreme, 

Pour  I'affermir  sur  tous,  je  le  prends  sur  moi-meme. 

Thus  love  IS  subjected  to  the  mind,  or  as  It 
used  to  be  expressed  in  the  language  of  the 
time,  which  was  of  Stoic  origin,  to  the  "  hege- 
monic potency.**  She  would  desire  to  raise  her 
youthful  beloved  to  the  lofty  level  of  her  in- 
tent, by  removing  him  from  the  sphere  of  weak 
lamentations  and  assuring  his  union  with  her- 
self in  a  mystic  marriage  of  superior  wills. 
What  contempt  is  hers  for  sentlmentalism, 
which  wishes  to  insinuate  itself  where  it  is  not 
wanted,  for  "  tears,**  for  "  the  shame  of 
tears  ** ! 

La  plus  ferme  couronne  est  bientot  ebranlee 
Quand  un  effort  d'amour  semble  Tavoir  volee; 
Et  pour  garder  un  rang  si  cher  a  nos  desirs 
II  faut  un  plus  grand  art  que  celui  des  soupirs. 
Ne  vous  abaissez  pas  a  la  honte  des  larmes; 
Contre  un  devoir  si  fort  ce  sont  de  faibles  armes; 
Et  si  de  tels  secours  vous  couronnaient  ailleurs, 
J*aurais  pitie  d*un  sceptre  achete  par  des  pleurs. 


When  we  read  such  verses  as  these,  our  breast 
expands,  as  it  does  when  we  are  in  the  company 
of  men  whose  gravity  of  word  and  deed  in- 
duce gravity,  whose  superiority  over  the  crowd 
makes  you  forget  the  existence  of  the  crowd, 
transporting  you  to  a  sphere  where  the  non- 
accomplishment  of  duty  would  appear,  not  only 
vile,  but  incomprehensible.  On  another  occa- 
sion our  admiration  is  about  to  shroud  itself  in 
pity,  but  soon  shines  forth  again  and  displays 
itself  triumphant,  as  in  the  young  princess  Hie- 
dion  of  the  Attila,  who  is  accorded  to  the  ab- 
horred king  of  the  Huns  by  a  treaty  of  peace  — 
were  she  to  refuse  the  union,  immeasurable 
calamities  would  fall  upon  her  family  and  peo- 
ple. She  too  observes  a  sorrowful  attitude 
but  hers  is  an  erect  and  combative  sorrow : 

Si  je  n*etais  pas,  seigneur,  ce  que  je  suis, 

J'en  prendrais  quelque  droit  a  finir  mes  ennuis: 

Mais  Tesclavage  fier  d'une  haute  naissance, 

Oil  toute  autre  peut  tout,  me  tient  dans  Timpuissance ; 

Et,  victime  d'etat,  je  dois  sans  reculer 

Attendre  aveuglement  qu*on  daigne  m*immoler. 

The  heart  trembles  and  restrains  itself  at  the 
same  moment  before  that  "  esclavage  fier''  that 
proud  and  sarcastic  *'qu*  on  daigne  m'immoler** 


420 


THE   POETRY 


THE   POETRY 


421 


the  victim  has  already  scrutinised  the  situation 
in  which  she  finds  herself,  the  duty  which  is  in- 
cumbent upon  her,  the  prospect  of  vengeance 
which  opens  itself  before  her  and  her  race,  and 
has  already  conceived  her  terrible  design.  In 
like  manner  with  Queen  Rodolinde  in  the  Per- 
tharite,  when  she  is  solicited  and  implored  by 
the  usurper  Grimoalde,  who  wished  to  espouse 
her  and  promises  to  declare  himself  tutor  to 
her  son  and  to  make  him  heir  to  the  throne, — 
suspecting  that  in  this  way  he  will  deprive  her 
of  the  honour  of  marriage  faith  and  may  then 
put  her  son  to  death  —  she  decides  upon  a  hor- 
rible course  of  action,  proposing  to  him  that  he 
should  put  her  son  to  death  on  the  spot: 

Puisqu'il  faut  qu'il  perisse,  il  vaut  mieux  tot  que 
tard; 
Que  sa  mort  soit  un  crime,  et  non  pas  un  hazard ; 
Que  cette  ombre  innocente  a  toute  heure  m'anime, 
Me  demande  a  toute  heure  une  grande  victime; 
Que  ce  jeune  monarque,  immolc  de  ta  main, 
Te  rende  abominable  a  tout  le  genre  humain ; 
Qu'il  t'excite  par  tout  des  haines  immortelles; 
Que  de  tous  tes  sujets  il  fasse  des  rebelles. 
Je  t'epouserai  lors,  et  m'y  viens  d'obliger, 
Pour  mieux  servir  ma  haine  et  pour  mieux  me  venger, 
Pour  moins  perdre  des  voeux  contre  ta  barbaric, 
Pour  etre  a  tous  moments  maitresse  de  ta  vie, 


Pour  avoir  I'acces  libre  a  pousser  ma  fureur, 
Et  mieux  choisir  la  place  ou  te  percer  le  coeur. 
Voila  mon  desespoir,  voila  ses  justes  causes: 
A  ces  conditions,  prends  ma  main,  si  tu  Toses. 

Her  husband  Pertharite,  who  had  been  believed 
to  be  dead,  is  alive:  he  returns  and  is  made 
prisoner  by  Grimoalde,  and  Rodolinde,  fearing 
ruin,  decides  to  avenge  him  or  to  perish  with 
him.  But  he  sees  the  situation  in  which  he  finds 
himself  with  his  consort  in  a  different  light 
objectively:  he  sees  it  as  a  conquered  king, 
who  bows  his  head  to  the  decision  of  destiny, 
recognises  the  right  of  the  conqueror  and  holds 
ever  aloft  in  his  soul  the  idea  of  regal  majesty. 
So  he  asserts  it  with  firmness  and  serenity,  go- 
ing beyond  all  personal  feelings,  in  order  that 
he  may  consider  only  what  appertains  both  to 
the  rights  and  duties  of  a  king: 

Quand  ces  devoirs  communs  ont  d'importunes  lois, 

La  majeste  du  trone  en  dispense  les  rois; 

Leur  gloire  est  au-dessus  des  regies  ordinaires, 

Et  cct  honneur  n*est  beau  que  pour  les  coeurs  vulgaires. 

Sitot  qu'un  roi  vaincu  tombe  aux  mains  du  vainqueur, 

II  a  trop  merite  la  derniere  rigueur. 

Ma  mort  pour  Grimoald  ne  peut  avoir  de  crime: 

Le  soin  de  s'affermir  lui  rend  tout  legitime. 

Quand  j'aurai  dans  ses  fers  cesse  de  respirer, 

Donnez-lui  votre  main  sans  rien  considerer; 


I 


422 


THE   POETRY 


Epargnez  les  efforts  d*une  impuissante  haine, 
Et  permettez  au  Ciel  de  vous  faire  encor  reine. 

The  courageous  and  sagacious  Nicomede 
speaks  kingly  words  of  a  different  sort,  well 
calculated  to  arouse  him  and  make  him  lift  up 
his  head,  to  the  vacillating  father,  who  wishes 
to  content  both  Rome  and  the  queen,  establish 
agreement  between  love  and  nature,  be  father 
and  husband : 

—  Seigneur,  voulez-vous  Bien  vous  en  fier  a  moi  ? 
Ne  soyez  Tun  ni  Tautre. —  Et  que  dois-je  etre?  —  Roi. 
Reprenez  hautement  ce  noble  caractere. 
Un  veritable  roi  n'est  ni  mari  ni  pere ; 
II  regarde  son  trone,  et  rien  de  plus.     Regnez; 
Rome  vous  craindra  plus  que  vous  ne  la  craignez. 
Malgre  cette  puissance  et  si  vaste  et  si  grande, 
Vous  pouvez  deja  voir  comme  elle  m*apprehende, 
Combien  en  me  perdant  elle  espere  gagner, 
Parce  qu'elle  prevoit  que  je  saurai  regner. 

Let  us  listen  also  for  a  moment  to  the  Chris- 
tian Theodora,  who  has  been  granted  the  time 
to  choose  between  offering  incense  to  the  gods 
and  being  abandoned  to  the  soldiery  in  the  pub- 
lic brothel : 

Quelles  sont  vos  rigueurs,  si  vous  les  nommez  grace! 
Et  que  choix  voulez-vous  qu'une  chretienne  fasse, 
Reduite  a  balancer  son  esprit  agite 
Entre  Tidolatrie  et  I'impudicite? 


THE   POETRY 


423 


Le  choix  est  inutile  ou  les  maux  sont  extremes. 

Reprenez  votre  grace,  et  choisissez  vous-memes: 

Quiconque  peut  choisir  consent  a  Tun  des  deux, 

Et  le  consentement  est  seul  lache  et  honteux. 

Dieu,  tout  juste  et  tout  bon,  qui  lit  dans  nos  pensees, 

N 'impute  point  de  crime  aux  actions  forcees; 

Soit  que  vous  contraigniez  pour  vos  dieux  impuissans 

Mon  corps  a  I'infamie  ou  ma  main  a  I'encens, 

Je  saurai  conserver  d'une  ame  resolue 

A  Tepoux  sans  macule  une  epouse  impollue. 

She  really  does  balance  herself  mentally  at  the 
parting  of  the  ways  placed  before  her,  analyses 
It  and  formulates  her  determination,  rejecting 
as  cowardly  both  the  choice  of  the  sacrilege  and 
of  the  shameful  punishment  and  casting  it  in 
the  teeth  of  her  unworthy  oppressors.  It  is 
the  only  answer  that  befits  the  Christian  virgin, 
firm  in  her  determination  of  saving  her  con- 
stancy in  the  faith  and  modesty,  which  resides 
not  only  in  the  will,  but  also  in  desire  itself. 
The  expression  of  her  intention  has  just  such  a 
tone  and  adopts  just  the  formulae  of  a  the- 
ologian speaking  by  her  mouth  — "  le  consent- 
menty  "  Vepoux  sans  macule;'  "  I' epouse  im- 

pollue.'* 

In  Theseus  of  the  Oedipe  the  poet  himself 
protests  against  a  conception  that  menaces  the 
foundation  of  his  spirit  itself,  because  it  offends 


424 


THE  POETRY 


I 


THE  POETRY 


the  idea  of  free  choice  and  makes  unsteady  the 
consciousness  that  man  has  of  being  able  to  de- 
termine upon  a  line  of  conduct  according  to 
reason.  He  is  protesting  against  the  ancient 
idea  of  fate,  or  rather  against  its  revival  in 
modern  form,  as  the  Jansenist  doctrine  of 
grace : 

Quoi!  la  necessite  des  vertus  et  des  vices 

D'un  astre  imperieux  doit  suivre  les  caprices, 

Et  Delphes,  malgre  nous,  conduit  nos  actions 

Au  plus  bizarre  effet  de  ses  predictions? 

L'ame  est  done  toute  esclave:  une  loi  souveraine 

Vers  le  bien  ou  le  mal  incessamment  Tentraine; 

Et  nous  ne  recevons  ni  crainte  ni  desir 

De  cette  liberte  qui  n*a  rien  a  choisir, 

Attaches  sans  relache  a  cet  ordre  sublime, 

Vcrtueux  sans  merite  et  vicieux  sans  crime. 

Qu'on  massacre  les  rois,  qu*on  brise  les  autels, 

C*est  la  faute  des  dieux  et  non  pas  des  mortcls: 

De  toute  la  vertu  sur  la  terre  epandue 

Tout  le  prix  a  ces  dieux,  toute  la  gloire  est  due: 

lis  agissent  en  nous  quand  nous  pensons  agir; 

Alors  qu*on  delibere,  on  ne  fait  qu*obeir ; 

Et  notre  volonte  n*aime,  hait,  cherche,  evite. 

Que  suivant  que  d'en  haut  leur  bras  la  precipite! 

D*un  tel  aveuglement  daignez  me  dispenser. 

Le  Ciel,  juste  a  punir,  juste  a  recompenser, 

Pour  rendre  aux  actions  leur  perte  ou  leur  salare, 

Doit  nous  ofErir  son  aide  et  puis  nous  laisser  faire.  .  .  . 


425 


What  indignationj  what  a  revolt  of  the  whole 
being  against  the  thought  that  "  quand  on  de- 
libere, on  ne  fait  qu!  obeir  " !  How  he  defends 
the  liberty,  not  only  of  the  "  virtus ^^^  but  also  of 
the  "  vices, ^*  the  liberty ''  de  nous  laisser  faire  ".^ 
This  eloquence  of  the  will  and  of  liberty,  this 
singing  declamation,  is  the  true  lyricism  of  Cor- 
neille,  intimate  and  substantial,  and  not  the  so- 
called  "  lyrical  pieces,"  which  he  inserted  into 
his  tragedies  here  and  there.  These  are  lyri- 
cal in  the  formal  and  restricted  scholastic  sense 
of  the  term,  but  they  are  often  as  affected  as 
the  monologue  of  Rodrigue,  which  is  accom- 
panied by  a  refrain.  Others  have  demonstrated 
in  an  accurately  analytical  manner  that  he 
lacks  lyricism  or  poetry  of  style;  that  the  con- 
struction of  his  phrase  is  logical,  with  its  "  be- 
cause," its  "  but,"  its  "  then,"  that  he  over- 
abounds  in  maxims  and  altogether  ignores  meta- 
phor, the  picturesque  and  musicality.  But  the 
same  writer  who  has  maintained  this,  has  also 
declared  that  his  poetry  is  to  be  found,  if  not 
in  the  coloured  image  and  in  the  musical  sound, 
then  certainly  "  in  the  rhythm,  in  the  wide  or 
rapid  vibration  of  the  strophe,  which  extends  or 
transports  the  thought "  (Lanson)  :  that  is  to 


426 


THE    POETRY 


THE   POETRY 


427 


say,  in  making  this  admission,  he  has  confuted 
his  previous  mean  and  narrow  theory  concern- 
ing poetry  and  lyricism.  The  other  judgment 
is  to  the  effect  that  Corneille  is  not  a  poet  by 
style,  but  by  the  conception  and  meaning  of  his 
works  —  that  he  is  a  latent  poet  or  one  who 
dressed  up  his  thought  in  prose.  But  it  is  un- 
thinkable that  there  should  exist  latent  poets, 
who  do  not  manifest  themselves  in  poetic  form. 
The  truth  of  the  matter  is  that  where  Corneille 
felt  as  a  poet,  he  expressed  himself  as  a  poet, 
without  many-coloured  metaphors,  without  mu- 
sical trills  and  softnesses  of  expression,  but 
with  many  maxims,  many  conjunctive  particles, 
declaratory  and  expressive  of  opposition.  He 
employed  the  latter  rather  than  the  former,  be- 
cause he  had  need  of  the  latter  and  not  of  the 
former.  His  rhythm  too,  which  has  been  so 
much  praised  and  owing  to  which  his  alexan- 
drine rings  out  so  differently  from  the  mechan- 
ical alexandrines  of  his  imitators,  the  rhe- 
toricians, is  nothing  but  his  spirit  itself,  noble 
and  solemn,  debating  and  deliberating,  resolute, 
unafraid  and  firm  in  its  rational  determinations. 
Corneille's  keenest  adversaries  have  always 
been  compelled  to  recognise  in  him  a  residuum, 
which    withstood    their    destructive    criticism. 


Vauvenargues  said  that  **  he  sometimes  ex- 
pressed himself  with  great  energy  and  no  one 
has  more  loftly  traits,  no  one  has  left  behind 
him  the  idea  of  a  dialogue  so  closely  compacted 
and  so  vehement,  or  has  depicted  with  equal 
felicity  the  power  and  the  inflexibility  of  the 
soul,  which  come  to  it  from  virtue.  There  are 
astonishing  flashes  that  come  forth  even  from 
the  disputes  and  upon  which  I  commented  unfav- 
ourably, there  are  battles  that  really  elevate  the 
heart,  and  finally,  although  he  frequently  re- 
moves himself  from  nature,  it  must  be  confessed 
that  he  depicts  her  with  great  directness  and 
vigour  in  many  places,  and  only  there  is  he  to 
be  admired."  Jacobi,  in  an  essay  which  is  an 
indictment,  was  however,  compelled  to  excogi- 
tate or  to  beg  for  the  reason  of  such  fame ;  he 
found  himself  obliged  to  praise  the  many  viva- 
cious scenes,  the  depth  of  discourse,  the  lofti- 
ness of  expression,  to  be  found  scattered  here 
and  there  in  those  tragedies.  Although  Schil- 
ler did  not  care  for  him  at  all,  he  made  an  ex- 
ception for  **  the  part  that  is  properly  speaking 

Note.  I  draw  attention  to  it  in  this  note,  because  I  have 
never  seen  it  mentioned:  it  is  to  be  found  in  the  Charaktere 
der  vornehmsten  Dichter  aller  Nationen..  .  .  von  einer 
Gesellschaft  von  Gelchrten  (Leipzig,  1796),  Vol.  V,  part  I, 
pp.  38-138. 


c 


^ 


V 


I 


428 


THE   POETRY 


heroic,"  which  was  "  felicitously  treated,"  al- 
though he  added  that  "  even  this  vein,  which 
is  not  rich  in  itself,  was  treated  monotonously." 
Schlegel  was  struck  with  certain  passages  and 
with  the  style  which  is  often  powerful  and  con- 
cise and  De  Sanctis  observed  that  Corneille  was 
in  his  own  field,  when  he  portrayed  greatness 
of  soul,  not  in  its  gradations  and  struggles,  but 
"  as  nature  and  habit,  in  the  security  of  posses- 
sion." A  German  philologist,  after  he  has  run 
down  the  tragedies  of  the  **  quadrilateral," 
judges  Corneille  to  be  **  a  jurist  and  a  cold  man 
of  intellect,  although  full  of  nobility  and  dig- 
nity of  soul,  but  without  clearness  as  to  his 
own  aptitudes,  and  without  original  creative 
power."  This  writer  declares  that  ''  nowhere 
in  his  works  do  we  feel  the  breath  of  genius  that 
laughs  at  all  restraints,"  but  he  goes  on  to  make 
exception  for  the  splendour  of  his  "  language." 
It  seems  somewhat  difficult  to  make  an  excep- 
tion for  the  language,  precisely  when  discussing 
the  question  of  poetical  genius ! 

We  certainly  find  monotony  present  in  the 
figures  that  he  sets  before  us,  repetitions  of 
thoughts  and  of  schemes,  analogies  in  the  mat- 
ter of  process.  A  concordantta  corneliana, 
explicatory  of  this  side  of  his  genius  could  be 


THE   POETRY 


429 


constructed  and  perhaps  the  sole  reason  that 
this  has  not  been  done  is  because  it  would  be 
too  easy.  Steinweg,  whom  we  have  quoted 
above,  has  provided  a  good  instance  of  this. 
But  even  the  monotony  of  Corneille  must  not 
be  looked  upon  altogether  as  a  proof  of  pov- 
erty, or  a  defect,  but  rather  as  an  intrinsic  char- 
acteristic of  his  austere  inspiration,  which  was 
susceptible  of  assuming  but  few  forms. 

I  cannot  better  close  this  discussion  of  Cor- 
neille than  with  the  citation  of  a  youthful  page 
of  Sainte-Beuve,  which  contains  nothing  but  a 
fanciful  comparison,  but  this  comparison  has 
much  more  to  say  to  us,  who  have  now  com- 
pleted the  critical  examination  of  his  works, 
than  Sainte-Beuve  was  himself  able  to  say  in 
his  various  critical  writings  relative  to  the  poet, 
for  he  there  shows  himself  to  be  at  one  moment 
inclined  to  be  uncertain  and  to  oscillate,  at  an- 
other inclined  to  yield  to  traditional  judgments 
and  conventional  enthusiasms.  This  affords 
another  proof,  if  such  be  necessary,  that  it  is 
one  thing  to  receive  the  sensible  impression 
aroused  by  a  poem  and  another  to  understand 
and  to  explain  it.  "Corneille" — wrote 
Sainte-Beuve, —  **  a  pure  genius,  yet  an  incom- 
plete one,  gives  me,  with  hi§  qualities  and  his 


I 


430 


THE   POETRY 


defects,  the  impression  of  those  great  trees,  so 
naked,  so  gnarled,  so  sad  and  so  monotonous  as 
regards  their  trunk,  and  adorned  with  branches 
and  dark  green  leaves  only  at  their  summits. 
They  are  strong,  powerful,  gigantic,  having  but 
little  foliage;  an  abundarit  sap  nourishes  them; 
but  you  must  not  expect  from  them  shelter, 
shade  or  flowers.  They  put  forth  their  leaves 
late,  lose  them  early  and  live  a  long  while  half 
dismantled.  Even  when  their  bald  heads  have 
abandoned  their  leaves  to  the  winds  of  autumn, 
their  vital  nature  still  throws  out  here  and 
there  stray  boughs  and  green  shoots.  When 
they  are  about  to  die,  their  groans  and  creak- 
ings  are  like  that  trunk,  laden  with  arms,  to 
which  Lucan  compared  the  great  Pompey." 


INDEX 


Action,  226 ;  Shakespeare 
and,  200,  206. 

Adonis,  192. 

Aesthetic  theory,  300. 

Affinities,  112,  113,  114. 

Alexandra,  20. 

Alexandrines,  426. 

Alidor,  387,  388,  403. 

All's  Well,  169. 

Amaranthe,  387. 

Angelica,  xo8,  168. 

Anthony,  244,  249,  258. 

Anthony  and  Cleopatra,  193, 
242. 

Ariosto,  Lodovico,  as  poet  of 
harmony,  45 ;  autobiogra- 
phy, 27;  character  of  his 
love,  52;  character  of  his 
poetry,  8,  9;  circumstances, 
character  and  associates, 
18,  22;  comedies,  23;  com- 
parisons with  other  poets, 
95;  content,  13,  15;  epic- 
ity,  80;  eroticism,  26;  feel- 
ing toward  the  Estes,  60, 
61 ;  harmony  which  he  at- 
tains, 94;  heart  of  his 
heart,  29;  humanism,  37; 
irony,  70,  75;  Italian 
poems,  25;  jealousy,  53; 
Latin  poems,  24,  26;  love 
of   harmony,   48;    love   of 


women  as  his  single  pas- 
sion, 20;  minor  works,  67; 
naturalism,  objectivism, 
76,  78,  79;  need  of  love, 
30;  negative  qualities,  21; 
octaves,  71,  82;  pains  taken 
with  Orlando  Furioso,  30; 
philosophy,  48,  65;  politi- 
cal sentiments,  59;  princi- 
pal accent  of  his  art,  46; 
reflection,  75 ;  religious  out- 
look, 64;  satires,  27; 
Shakespeare  compared 

with,  145,  154,  165;  style, 
69;  wisdom  of  life,  15. 

Art,  essence,  39,  40;  for  art's 
sake,  10,  II,  12;  futile  and 
material,  12;  in  its  idea, 
35,  38;  musical  character, 
277;  of  Shakespeare,  274. 

Artist,  end  or  content,  35; 
poet  and,  41,  44. 

As  You  Like  It,  170,  198. 

Astolfo,  109. 

Attila,  344. 

Attila,  419. 

Augustus,  343,  344,  345,  366. 

Baconian  hypothesis,  131. 
Balzac,  Honore  de,  391. 
Barnadine,  265. 
Beatrice    (Dante's),  178. 


431 


432 


INDEX 


Beatrice  and  Benedick,  170. 
Beauty,  39. 
Bembo,  Pietro,  359. 
Bentivoglio,  Hercules,  20. 
Bibbivena,  Cardinal,  190. 
Biography,  details  of  poets*, 

133;  Shakespeare,  157. 
Boiardo,  M.  M.,  95,  97,  106, 

112;   Orlando  Innamorato, 

105. 

Boileau-Despreaux,     Nicolas, 

86. 
Bolingbroke,  Henry  St.  John, 

207,  208. 
Brandes,  G.  M.  C,  126,  127, 

134- 
Brunello,  109. 
Brunetiere,  Ferdinand,  402. 
Brutus,  248,  258,  S17. 
Burlesque     in     Shakespeare, 

198. 


Caesar,  Julius,  249. 
Calandria,  190. 
Caliban,  261. 
Camilla,  343»  345- 
Canello,  U.  A.,  7. 
Canova,  Antonio,  36. 
Cantu,  Cesare,  7. 
Carducci,  Giosni,  7,  10,  30. 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  302. 
Cassius,  249. 
Castro,  Guillen  de,  339,  346» 

347,  380. 
Casuistry,  390. 
Catherine       (Shakespeare's), 

168. 


Cervantes,  Saavedra  Miguel- 

de,  95. 
Characters,  Ariosto's,  80,  82; 

Corneille's,  410. 

Chasles,  Michel,  136. 

Chateaubriand,  F.  A.  R.,  on 
Shakespeare,  285. 

Chimene,  382. 

Chivalry,  Ariosto  and,  13,  14, 
15;  poets  and  poems  of,  95. 

Cid,  339,  340,  342,  348,  380, 
402,  414. 

Cinna,  343,  344»  355»  3^3, 
402,  414. 

Cinque  Canit,  88,  90. 

Cinzio,  Giraldi,  31,  41,  87. 

Classicists,  35,  37. 

Claudio,  264. 

Cleopatra,  242. 

Coleridge,  S.  T.,  on  Shake- 
speare, 174.  287,  297,  303, 

331- 
Comedies,  Ariosto's,  23. 

Comedy  of  Errors,  189. 

Comedy  of  love  in  Shake- 
speare, 163. 

Comic,  214,  216;  in  Cor- 
neille,  400. 

Complexity,  222. 

Concepts      in      Shakespeare, 

149,  151. 

"Confidential  air,"  69. 

Conflict,  38,  39;  in  Shake- 
speare, 148,  155. 

Constance,  Queen,  213. 

Corday,  Charlotte,  378. 

Cordelia,  230. 

Coriolanus,  2x2,  218. 


INDEX 


433 


Coriolanus,  294. 

Corneille,    Pierre,    basis    of 
tragedies,   356;   characters, 
410;   critic   and  defenders, 
337;  deliberative  will,  366, 
369,     389,     390,    423;     eu- 
logy, 358;  ideal,  362;  love, 
350,  369*  371.  3871  388,  416, 
417,  418;  mechanism  of  his 
tragedy,   390,   397*.   miscel- 
laneous   works,    386;    mo- 
notony, 428;   politics,  per- 
sonages, history,   372,   373, 
375»     378;     practical    pas- 
sionality    and    its    results, 
393;     rational     will,     349» 
351;        reputation,        337'. 
source  of  inspiration,  376; 
suppression    of    life,    393; 
where  his  poetry  lies,  408, 

413.  425- 
Cosmic  poetry,  146. 

Cressida,  180. 

Criticism,    office,     146,    I47; 

see     also      Shakespearean 

criticism. 
Curiace,  41 1> 
Cymbeline,  196,  199,  294. 


Dante,  \i,  15^  "5^.  178,  324- 
Davenant,  William,  123. 
Death,  178,  210,  242,  263,  411, 

412. 
De  Sanctis,  Francesco,  10,  n, 

13,  21,  40>  41.  82,  93,  96, 

339.  428. 
Descartes,  Rene,  353,  377- 


Desdemona,    238,    282,    308, 

31^,  317- 
Discord,  226,  227. 

Don  Quixote,  189. 

Dorchain,  Auguste,  362. 

Dream,  172. 

Dualism,  42;  in  Shakespeare, 

155,  287,  288. 
Duty,  372;  in  Hamlet,  248; 

in  Macbeth,  225. 

Emerson,  R.  W.,  on  Shake- 
speare, 298. 

Emilia,  401,  411. 

Epicity,  Ariosto's,  80;  Shake- 
speare's, 202,  204. 

Eroticism  in  Ariosto,  26. 

Ethics,   Shakespeare's,   155. 

Eurydice,  413. 

Evil,  as  perversity  in  Othello, 
237;  in  Macbeth,  223. 

Fagnet,  fimile,  398,  A^o. 
Falstaff,  Sir  John,  214,  309» 

317- 
Fate,    424;    in    Shakespeare, 

155. 
Fauriel,  C.  C,  346. 

Faust,  84. 

Ferdinand  and  Miranda,  184, 

261. 
Ferrara,  21,  24,  62. 
Ferrara,  Duke  of,  22. 
Ferrarese  Homer,  114. 
Fiordiligi,  55,  58,  9^- 
Fitton,  Mary,  123,  129,  152- 
Florence,  25,  96. 


434 


INDEX 


INDEX 


435 


Form  and  content,  in  Shake- 
speare, 274. 

Fragility,  258. 

France,  military  spirit, 
378 ;  misunderstanding  of 
Shakespeare,  321. 

French  Shakespeare,  404. 

French  theatre,  359. 

Friar  Laurence,  175. 

Friendship,  57. 

Furnivall,  F.  J.,  304. 


Gaillard,  G.  H.,  on  Comeille, 
34X. 

Galilei,  Galileo,  80,  98. 

Garfagnana,  21. 

Garofalo,  the  Ferrarese,  53. 

German  criticism  of  Shake- 
speare, 139,  306,  323,  325. 

Gerstenberg,  H.  W.  von,  320. 

Gervinus,    G.    G.,    156,    307, 

308,  309,  323- 
Gerusalemmet  6. 

God     in     Shakespeare,     143, 

154,  162. 
Goethe,   J.  W.   von,   16,   85; 

on   Shakespeare,   136,   149, 

331- 
Goneril,  231. 

Good  and  evil,  tragedy  of, 
in  Shakespeare,  221. 

Goodness,  in  King  Lear,  230; 
in  Macbeth,  229;  in  Shake- 
speare, 143,  162;  material 
world  and,  235. 

Greatness,  223. 

Grillparzer,  Franz,  318. 


Gundolf  (writer  on  art), 
353- 

Hamlet,  193,  194,  248,  314, 
318. 

Hamlet,  248. 

Hamlet'Litteratur,  313. 

Harmony,  Ariosto  as  poet  of, 
45 ;  Ariosto's  attainment, 
94;  concept,  34,  48;  cos- 
n^'Cf  39i  42;  realisation,  69. 

Harrington,  Sir  John,  21. 

Harris,  Frank,  129,  134,  297. 

Hazlitt,  William,  on  Shake- 
speare, 142,  303. 

Hegel,  G.  W.  F.,  13,  174,  177, 

355. 

Heine,  Heinrich,  on  Shake- 
spearean comedy,  166. 

Henry  V,  209. 

Henry  VHI,  259. 

Heraclius,  412. 

Herder,  J.  G.  von^  302. 

Hero,  21  z. 

Historical  plays,  Shake- 
speare's, 202,  293;  Shake- 
speare's,  personages,   211. 

Historical  romance,  205. 

Historicity,  in  Shakespeare, 
156,  159. 

History,  Corneille  and,  375, 
378;  Shakespeare  and,  206. 

Horace  (Corneille's),  411. 

Horace,  342,  383,  402,  414. 

Hotspur,  211,  218. 

Humanists,  35,  37. 

Humboldt,  K.  W.  von,  43. 

Hugo,  Victor,  302. 


Humour,  145. 
Hyacinth,  196,  199. 

lago,  236,  316,  330. 

Ideals,  in  Shakespeare,  139. 

Idyll,  187. 

Imagination,  291. 

Improvisation,  189. 

Indulgence,  in  Shakespeare, 
260,  263. 

Innamorato,  105. 

Inspiration,  112. 

Irony,  Ariosto's,  70,  75. 

Isabella,  Ariosto's  octaves  on 
the  name,  93. 

Italy,  Shakespeare's  indebt- 
edness to,  325. 

Jacobi,  427. 

Jealousy,  Ariosto's,  53. 

Jessica  and  Lorenzo,  180. 

Jew,  2i6,  217. 

Juliet,  175. 

Julius  Casar,  248. 

Jussurand,   J.   A.   A.   J.,   on 

Shakespeare,  285. 
Justice,  393;  in  Shakespeare, 

^58. 

King  Lear,  230,  282,  286,  295, 

303- 
Kings,  209,  307,  374,  421. 
Klein,    J.    L.,    on    Corneille, 

340. 
Knightly  romance,  62. 
Kreyssig,  Friedrich,  307,  323. 

La    Bruyire,    Jean    de,    351, 
364. 


Lanson,    Gustave,    362,    394, 
425. 

Laurence,  Friar,  175. 

Lemaitre,  Jules,  362,  373. 

Leopardi,  Giacomo,  312. 

Leopold  Shakespeare,  304. 

Lessing,  G.  E.,  83;  on  Cor- 
neille, 338. 

Liberty,  425. 

Life,  in  Corneille,  50,  351, 
393 ;  love  of  life  in  Shake- 
speare's characters,  263 ; 
Shakespeare's  sense  of,  141, 
147. 

Literary  style,  305. 

Literature  in  Shakespeare's 
time,  x88,  192. 

Logic,  396. 

Love,  255;  Ariosto's  love  of 
woman,  20;  Ariosto's  need, 
30;  character  of  Ariosto's, 
52;  comedy  of,  in  Shake- 
speare, 163;  Corneille,  350, 

369;  371,  387.  388.  416, 
417,  418;  highest,  34;  Or- 
lando  Furioso   matter,    55, 

56. 

Ludwig,     Otto,     on     Shake- 
speare, 147,  275- 
Lyricism.    See  Poetry. 

Macbeth,  310,  315* 
Macbeth,      134,      13  Si     222, 

280. 
Macbeth,  Lady,  315. 
Macduff,  281,  310. 
Machiavelli,  Niccolo,  24,  60, 

79.  »57,  373. 


436 


INDEX 


Maeterlinck,  Maurice,  321. 

Malvolio,  169. 

Mandragola  of  Machiavelli, 

24. 
Manzoni,  Alessandro,  16,  85; 

on  Shakespeare,  161. 
MarHsa,  109. 
Margutte,  102. 
Marino,     Giambattista,     191, 

192,  194. 
Marlowe,    Christoplier,    184, 

191. 
Material     of     the     Orlando 

Furioso,  50,  52,  66. 
Matrimony,  53. 
Mazzini,  Giuseppe,  on  Shake- 

peare,  296. 
Measure   for   Measure,   197, 

264,  294. 
Mechanism,   Corneille's,   390, 

397- 

Medoro,  58,  78,  91. 

Melodrama,  399. 

Menander,  165. 

Mental  presumptions,  Shake- 
speare's, 152,  157,  160. 

Merchant  of  Venice,  180, 
217,  295. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 
171. 

Miranda,  184,  261. 

Mocedades,  339,  340. 

Moderation,  292. 

Monotony,  in  Corneille,  428. 

Montaigne,  M.  E.,  136,  157. 

Monti,  Vincenzo,  36. 

Morf,  Heinrich,  7. 

Morgante,  98, 


Much   Ado   About  Nothing, 

170. 
Music,  43,  149,  179,  180,  243. 
Mystery,  in  Shakespeare,  148. 

Names,  Ariosto's  use,  74. 
Naturalism,  Ariosto's,  76,  78, 

79. 
Nature,    in    Ariosto,    83;    in 

Shakespeare,  319. 
Neoplatonism,  40. 
Nicomede,  422. 
Nicomede,  394,  395. 
Nietzsche,  Friedrich,  365,  379. 

Oberon,  172. 

O'Brien,  Florence,  303. 

Octaves,  Ariosto's,  71. 

Oedipe,  423. 

Olympia,  72,  77. 

Ophelia,  255,  314,  315. 

Orlando,  loi,  109;  madness, 
81. 

Orlando  Furioso,  character 
and  personages,  80,  82; 
critical  problem,  3;  emo- 
tional passages,  91 ;  frivol- 
ity and  seriousness,  85; 
languid  parts,  89;  love 
matter,  55,  56;  material, 
50,  52,  66;  obsolete  prob- 
lems, 7;  reading,  methods 
of,  84;  relation  to  Ari- 
osto's minor  works,  28;  re- 
straint, 93 ;  scrupulous  at- 
tention of  its  author,  30; 
spirit  which  animates,  34; 
toning  down,  90. 


INDEX 


437 


Orlando   Innamorato,   105. 
Othello,  238,  288,  316,  317. 
Othello,  236,  282,  308. 
Othon,  355. 
Ovid,  X12. 

Painting,  43. 
Pandarus,  181. 
Parrizzi,  Antonio,  7. 
Passions,   349,   371,  372i   377» 

390,   391,  392- 

Past,  love  of,  36,  37;  nostal- 
gia for,  205. 

Pastiche,  37. 

Pauline,  342. 

Pellissier,  G.  J.  M.,  284. 

Pembroke  theory  as  to  Shake- 
speare's Sonnets,  122. 

Pertharite,  420,  421. 

Petrarch,  Francesco,  41,  112. 

Petruchio,  168. 

Philiberta  of  Savoy,  25. 

Philocleon,  392. 

Philologism,  50,  78,  121,  132, 
133. 

Philosophy,  Ariosto's,  48,  65; 
Shakespeare's,  149,  i59» 
252. 

Picaresque  romance,  100. 

Place  Royale,  387,  403- 

Platen,  August,  296,  298. 

Plautus,  190. 

Pleasure,  242. 

Poet  and  artist,  41,  44* 

Poetry,  276,  278,  305.  307f 
351,  357,  404;  Corneille's, 
408,  413,  425;  cosmic,  146; 
didactic,  355;  latent  poets, 


426;   non-lyrical,   354;   ra- 
tionalistic, 352,  354. 

Politian,  Angelo,  36,  99,  112, 
113,  194. 

Politics,  in  Ariosto,  59;  in 
Corneille,  372;  in  Shake- 
speare, 156. 

Polyeucte,  342,  343,  383,  402, 
414. 

Pontano,  G.  G.,  36. 

Portia,  179. 

Power,  will  for,  365,  379. 

Pre-philosophy,  Shake- 
speare's,  160. 

Promessi  Sposi,  84,  85. 

Prospero,  260,  273. 

Puck,  172. 

Pulcherie,  415,  416. 

Pulcherie,  384. 

Pulci,  Luigi,  95,  98,  xia; 
Morgante,  98. 

Quickly,  Mistress,  220. 
Quixote,  Don,  187. 

Rabelais,  Francois,  76,  181. 
Racine,  Jean,   341,   349,   35^, 

3^4- 
Rajna,  Pio,  7,  97. 
Rape  of  Lucrece,  191. 
Reason,    in     Corneille,    349, 

351. 
Reflections  of  Ariosto,  75. 

Regan,  231. 

Religious  beliefs,  in  Ariosto, 

64. 

Renaissance,  65;  Shakespeare 

and,  158,  298,  325. 


438 


INDEX 


Rhythm,  in  Corneille,  426 ;  of 

the  universe,  4Z,  43* 
Richard  II,  208. 
Richard  III,  213,  307. 
Rinaldo,  101,  109. 
Rio    (Shakespearean    critic), 

152. 

Rodogune,  338,  342,  364.  3^7- 

Rodolindc,  Queen,  420,  421. 

Rodrigo,  347. 

Rodrique,  382. 

Romance,  in  Corneille,  404; 
in  Shakespeare,  261;  Shake- 
speare's romantic  plays, 
185. 

Romances,  95. 

Romeo  and  Juliet^  174,  *88. 

Riimelin,  Gustav,  137,  2Uy 
287,  308. 

Rutland,  Earl  of,  i3i» 


Sadoleto,  Cardinal,  85. 

Sainte-Beuve,  C.  A.,  on  Cor- 
neille, 429;  on  French 
tragedy,  353- 

St.  John,  Ariosto's  represen- 
tation, 77. 

Salvernini,  Signor,  96. 

Sannazaro,  Jacopo,  36. 

Sarcasm,  231. 

Schack,  A.  F.,  on  Corneille, 

339- 
Schiller,  J.  C.  F.  von,  297;  on 

Corneille,  338,  427- 
Schlegel,  A.  W.,  on  Corneille, 
338,  373;   on  Shakespeare, 
139,  I74»  321,  384.  428. 


Schlegel,        Frederick,        on 

French  tragedy,  352. 
Scientific  study,  8. 
Scott,  Walter,  205. 
Sculpture,  43: 
Seneca,  191,  379,  39^* 
Sentiment,        Shakespearean, 

138,  143,  149- 
Seriousness,  Ariosto's  85. 

Sertorius,  355. 

Shakespeare,  William,  analy- 
sis   and    eulogy   of   plays, 
280;    as    a    German   poet, 
319,  320,  323,  325;  Ariosto 
compared   with,    145,    154* 
165;  art  of,  274;  biographi- 
cal  problem,  157;   biogra- 
phy,   useless    labours    and 
conjectures,    122;    chronol- 
ogy   of    plays,    119,    121; 
classical,   291 ;    comedy   of 
love,      163;      comparisons 
with  certain  painters,  147; 
conceptions,  149,  151;  con- 
flict,   155;    Corneille    and, 
404;    distinction    of    lesser 
and    greater    Shakespeare, 
221 ;     dualism,     155,     287, 
288 ;    English    indiflFerence 
to,   in  former  times,   322; 
errors     and    defects,    289, 
295;  ethics,  155;  excellence 
long   disputed,   284;    Fate, 
155;     fidelity    to    Nature, 
319;  French  judgments  on 
his  art,  284;  goodness  and 
God,    143.    154.    162;    his- 
torical  plays,   293;    histor- 


INDEX 


439 


I    icity,   156,    159;    ideal   de- 
velopment and  chronologi- 
cal   series,    266;    idealism, 
139;    interest    in    practical 
action,    and    his    historical 
plays,  200;  justice  and  in- 
dulgence as  motives  in  his 
plays,    258;     life    of    his 
time,   158;   literary  educa- 
tion, 325;  literature  of  his 
time  and  his  literary  plays, 
188,  192;  mass  of  work  de- 
voted to,  333;  mental  pre- 
suppositions, 152,  157,  160; 
models,    130;    moderation, 
292;  motives  and  develop- 
ment  of   his   poetry,    163; 
mystery,     148;     order     of 
plays,  266;  ourselves  and, 
328;   philosophy,   149.   I59i 
252;    political   faith,    156; 
practical     personality    and 
poetical    personality,    117; 
pre-philosophy,   160;  read- 
ing,   Shakespeare's    course 
of,  136,  157;  religion,  152; 
Renaissance  and,  158,  298 
325;     romance,    261;     ro- 
mance as  a  motive  and  the 
romantic  plays,  185;  sense 
of  life,  141,^147;  sentiment, 
138,  143,  149;  society  of  the 
time,    135;    Sonnets,    192; 
Sonnets,     theories      about, 
122;    soul    of    his    poetry, 
306;    strife,   conflict,    war, 
147,  148 ;  taste,  291 ;  theat- 
rical   representation,    330; 


universality,  138,  150;  use- 
less conjectures  about 
plays,  123 ;  useless  philol- 
ogy, 121. 
Shakespearean  criticism,  300; 
criticism  by  images,  302; 
exclamatory  criticism,  301 ; 
French  and  Italian,  321, 
324;  German  school,  306, 
320,  322;  objectivistic,  3x2; 
philological,  303 ;  present 
age,        333;        rhetorical, 

305- 
Shylock,  216. 

Sleep,  227. 

Sonata  form,  277. 

Sonnets,    Shakespeare's,    122, 

192. 
Sources,  50. 
Southampton,    Earl    of,    122, 

131- 
Southampton    theory    as    to 

Shakespeare's  Sonnets,  122. 

Stanley,  William,  132. 

State,  391. 

Steinweg    (philologist),   428, 

429. 

Stoveisus,  375,  418. 

Stories  of  knightly  romance, 
62. 

Strife,  38,  39;  »n  Shake- 
speare, 146,  147* 

Sturm  und  Drang,  32a 

Styles  of  writing,  305;  Ari- 
osto's style,  69. 

Sulzer,  J.  G.,  10,  86. 

Surena,  411. 

Surena,  413. 


/440 


INDEX 


Swinburne,  A.  C,  on  Shake- 
speare, 270,  301-  ' 
System,  359»  S^o*  S^** 


Universal,    in    Shakespeare, 

138,  150. 
Universe,  rhythm  of,  ^2,  43. 

Unreality,  196. 


Taine,  H.  A.,  135;  357;  on 

Shakespeare,  14*- 
Taming  of  the  Shrew,  168. 
Tasso,  Torquato,  90,  9^.  **4i 

199. 

Tears,  4x8. 
Technique,  275. 
Tempest,  184,  260,  307- 
Theseus,  423' 
Ttmon  of  Athens,  294. 

Titania,  172. 

Titus  Andronicus,  190. 

Tolomei,  Claudio,  32. 

Tolstoi,  Leo,  on  Shakespeare, 
139,  285. 

Toning  down,  in  Ariosto,  90- 

Tornabuoni,  Lucrezia,  99- 

Tragedy,  Corneille's  mechan- 
ism, 390,  397;  F^«»c*^  '^^' 
tionalistic,  352;  of  charac- 
ter, 360;  of  good  and  evil, 
in  Shakespeare,  221 ;  of  the 

will,  241. 
Trammels,  404. 
Troilus    and    Cressida,    180, 

295- 
Twelfth  flight,  169,  190- 
Two   Gentlemen  of  Verona, 

167. 

Ulrici,    Hermann,    156,    307, 

310. 
Unity,  39- 


Vauvenargues,  L.  de  C,  340, 

427. 

Venus  and  Adonis,  191,  194* 

Verdi,  Giuseppe,  330- 
Vico,  Giambattista,  290. 
Virtue,  in  Shakespeare,  162. 
Vischer,   F.   T.  von,   10,  43, 

139,  307- 
Voltaire,    J.    F.    M.    A.,    on 

Corneille,    340,    34^,    355, 
358,   385,   398;   on   Shake- 
speare, 284,  321. 
Voluptuousness,  241. 

War,  in  Shakespeare,  148. 
Will,  425;  deliberative,  366, 
369,    378,    389,    390,    423; 
pure,  364;  rational,  in  Cor- 
neille,   349.    351;    resolute, 
413;     sophistry    of,     226; 
tragedy  of,  241 ;  "  wiH  for 
power,"  365,  379- 
Winckelmann,  J.  J.,  43- 
Winter's  Tale,  198,  i99.  ^94 
Wisdom  of   life,  in  Ariosto, 

15- 
Wofflin,  Heinrich,  49. 
Woman,    as    object    of    Ari- 

osto's   love,   20;   love   and 

politics,  356. 


Zerbino,  58,  9i- 


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